


Ultra Violence

by gefhrlich



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Blood, Blood Kink, Gore, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post Season 2 Finale, Pre-Slash, Slash, Spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-09 06:12:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 53,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1971948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gefhrlich/pseuds/gefhrlich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post season 2 finale (not S3 compliant).  Roman Godfrey struggles with loss, betrayal and a growing rage that threatens to consume everything (and everyone) in his path.  Will Peter stand by him, or watch as he self-destructs?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Through me you go to the grief wracked city;  
> Through me you go to everlasting pain;  
> Through me you pass among lost souls.  
> Justice inspired my exalted Creator:  
> I am a creature of the Holiest Power, of Wisdom in the Highest and of Primal Love.  
> Nothing till I was made was made, only eternal beings.  
> And I endure eternally.  
> Abandon all hope — Ye Who Enter Here."
> 
> -Inscription over the Gates of Hell  
> Canto III, "Dante's Inferno"

She was gone. No sooner had Roman’s steel heart opened to Nadia, and she was taken from him. Like all things he learned to love, she was ripped from his arms leaving him empty, frightened and hungry. It felt as if he was losing Letha all over again, but this time, it was so much worse. Now, there was nothing left. 

Roman was rooted where he stood at the edge of the White Tower roof. He stared down at the sleepy town below for what seemed like hours. Peter and Destiny had descended from the roof to speak with Pryce, to inform him of the unfathomable events that took place in the skies of Hemlock Grove that night, and to make arrangements for the disposal of Norman’s body. If Roman hadn't felt so numb at that moment, he might have felt a twinge of jealousy. Peter and Destiny had each other. They would likely abandon Hemlock Grove in the wake of yet another horrific tragedy. They could join Lynda in Romania and be a family again. They could leave the horrors in Hemlock Grove behind them and start anew. 

Roman didn’t have such luxuries. It was the burden of his birthright. Although he had no allegiance to Godfrey Industries, the town, or his wretched mother, his hunger would forever control him. And what of Shelley? The loss of Priscilla had sent his kind, beautiful sister into a fit of anxiety, rage and pain. Roman couldn't, wouldn't leave her behind. And then there was the hunger. The hunger would control him for eternity, would guarantee a lifetime of loneliness and suffering. 

These dark thoughts swirled in in Roman’s mind as he stared numbly over the edge of the White Tower. Eventually, he heard heavy, hesitant footsteps coming towards him and a strong hand on his shoulder. Roman didn't turn around. He continued to stare into the darkness, peppered by the dim glow from the houses below him while Hemlock Grove continued to sleep soundly through the night. 

“C’mon, man. You can’t stand here all night. We’ll take you home,” Peter said softly. 

Roman didn't turn to face his friend. “I couldn't protect her,” he said flatly. 

“You couldn't have known. None of us knew, not about Miranda or that crazy fucking doctor, or Olivia,” Peter said.

“I should have known. I knew Miranda was weak, I sent her to that doctor just to keep her from bitching at me. I knew what Olivia was capable of, but I fucked up. I was too consumed with my own shit, and now Nadia is gone and it’s my fucking fault,” Roman said. His voice remained steady, unbreaking. But inside, his guts were in horrible knots and it took all his strength to keep from doubling over. 

Peter just shook his head, gently patted Roman on the shoulder and turned toward the stairway door. Roman followed reluctantly, still keeping his eyes on the spot where Miranda had stepped from the roof and where the strange beast had slipped into the night sky with his daughter. 

 

************

Destiny drove Roman home in her station wagon. Peter sat in the front seat, smoking a cigarette and blowing thick clouds of smoke out the passenger side window. They didn't speak. 

When the station wagon pulled up to the front steps of the modern mansion Roman had shared with Miranda and Nadia, Roman silently stepped from the car and walked solemnly to the door. Peter made to follow him, but Roman held up a hand in protest, never making eye contact. Peter retreated into the car and they drove away, leaving Roman standing on the steps alone. 

When he entered the house, he was hit with the strong scent of bleach, a cruel reminder of the first attack on little Nadia. The smell made his stomach churn and burned his eyes. Roman walked to his room, laid down on his rumpled, silken sheets without bothering to remove his shoes and belt. He crossed his hands over his chest and stared at the ceiling, unblinking. The hunger was beginning to gnaw at him again, but he ignored it. He deserved this pain. 

Roman stayed in that position for two days. He knew Olivia was out there somewhere, planning her violent return to Hemlock Grove to reclaim the Godfrey throne. But Roman couldn't bring himself to give a fuck. She could come and kill him where he lay and he wouldn't have protested. At least the hunger, the pain and the loneliness would stop. 

He didn't sleep or eat for those two days. He simply lay, unmoving, waiting for the numbness in his heart to subside and the sadness to come crashing down like a tidal wave. But it didn't come. The sun continued to rise and set as it always did. 

After dusk on the third day, the doorbell rang. Roman made no move to answer it but with his keen ears heard the rattle of the lock and the click of the door opening. 

“Pretty sure that door was locked,” Roman stated to the darkness, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.

“What kind of Gypsy would I be if I didn't know how to pick a lock?” Peter said dryly. 

Roman sighed, blinked slowly and raised himself to a seated position. Peter was standing in the doorway, dark hair falling over his eyes as he stared at his feet. He looked wrecked. His jeans were rumpled and his leather jacket hung loosely from his shoulders. His cheeks were hollow and the hair on his face and grown scraggly. 

“You look like shit, Rumancek,” Roman said. 

“How come you don’t?” Peter asked. He grabbed a chair from the corner of Roman’s room and dragged it toward the bed where Roman sat. Peter slumped into the chair, pushing his hair back out of his eyes and rubbing his hands down his face with a deep sigh. 

Roman shrugged. “What do you want?” he asked. 

“I, uh, wanted to see if you were still alive. You know, check in.” Peter’s eyes flicked up from the floor and Roman saw the discomfort and sadness in his face. It caused his stomach to tighten uncomfortably and he felt the rage and hunger in his gut begin to fester, threatening to bubble to the surface.

“Bullshit.” Roman swung his legs around so his feet were firmly on the ground, his elbow on his knees. He glared into Peter’s face. “Don’t pretend you pity me.” 

“I cared about Nadia, too. I’m really fucked up about all of this. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to look for her,” Peter said. 

“She’s probably dead. If she isn't dead, she’s dead to us. She belongs to that thing now, whatever the fuck it was. It is going to turn her into a monster. There is nothing we can do,” Roman said.

Peter sighed. “Fuck, man. I’m sorry.” 

“Fuck you. You’re not sorry. Not for me, anyway. Why did you even fucking come here?” Roman spat. 

“Shit. I…” Peter hesitated. 

“Spit it out, Rumancek.”

“I’m here to say goodbye,” Peter sputtered. “Destiny and I are leaving Hemlock Grove. I just can’t fucking be here anymore. It’s like losing Letha all over again. I just…I can’t.”

Roman sat, unmoving for a long moment. He felt a sharp sting in his gut so piercing and hot it he almost checked for the knife. The pain seared Roman’s insides and then erupted into a volcano of white hot rage that spread from his center to the tips of his fingers and toes. 

Roman was on his feet with both hands around Peter’s neck in a millisecond. He slammed him against the wall so hard the drywall cracked behind the weight of the blow. Peter was clawing at Roman’s grip around his neck while his feet kicked ferociously, stretching hopelessly for the ground. His eyes flashed yellow as the wolf inside attempted to tear its way out of Peter’s flesh. 

“You stupid Gypsy fuck! You worthless piece of shit! How fucking dare you even speak to me! You should have just abandoned me like you wanted to and saved yourself the fucking pain,” Roman roared. The rage and hunger was tearing him apart and Peter would suffer for it. 

“Get the fuck off me, Godfrey!” Peter sputtered. He managed to worm his way out of Roman’s iron grip, shoving the taller man backwards violently.

Roman landed on a sleek black side table, shattering the glass top and lodging thick shards of glass in Roman’s flesh. He shrieked and lunged at Peter, who was coughing and rubbing the red welts blooming around his throat. Peter was quicker in a fight than Roman expected and dodged Roman’s oncoming blow, sending Roman hurdling into a floor lamp in the corner of the room. He could feel the blood soaking into the back of his t-shirt and the smell of it made his head swim. 

As Roman leapt to his feet, Peter uttered a guttural growl and swung at Roman. The hard crack of Peter’s fist against his cheekbone only intensified Roman’s rage. His vision blurred in shades of red as Roman mustered all of his strength as he flung Peter against the damaged wall. Flakes of paint and drywall showered the room in a fine dust. Roman poured all of the hurt and betrayal behind his fist, punching Peter in the face so hard his lip split and bright crimson blood splattered across his face.

Roman lost control. The next few moments transpired in slow motion and Roman knew he should stop himself but it was too late. The beast within him, the Upir, had taken over and it was hungry. Roman’s hypnotic stare seared into Peter’s brain and Roman saw a brief flicker of fear in Peter’s blue eyes before they burned yellow and animal. Roman’s mouth was at Peter’s throat, his wickedly sharp teeth piercing the tender flesh. He wanted to rip and tear at his throat until there was nothing left but threads of meat and skin and tendon. The blood was thick and tasted too strongly of iron and minerals. The taste was like a mouthful of dirt and nails and it caused Roman to gag, but he couldn't stop. He pressed his body against Peter, drinking deeply, his fingers in Peter’s hair, pulling to further expose the jugular. He could feel the heat radiating from Peter’s body as he fed, his skin so hot it might burn. 

At first, Peter fought him, all knees and elbows swinging violently to free himself from Roman’s grasp. But then the fighting subsided. Peter’s fists gripped Roman’s shirt and he let out a groan more animal than human. His breathing became ragged and gasping and his grip loosened. Roman tore himself away from Peter, flinging himself backwards in horror. Peter was staring at Roman and clutching the wound at his throat, mouth agape and his eyes dark, but human. Peter’s knees buckled and he sunk to the floor, the blood from his neck now running down his arm. 

“God damn it,” Peter said, his voice husky and strained. 

Roman dashed to the bathroom to retrieve a towel to soak up the blood. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror before darting back out again. His chin and neck were smeared with Peter’s blood, his eyes wild with hunger and lust. It terrified him. He quickly wiped the blood from his face with a washcloth and brought a clean towel to Peter. 

Roman crouched on the floor in front of Peter, who was slumped against the wall looking mistrusting. Peter snatched the towel from Roman and held it to his wound. 

“I’m sorry,” Roman stated coolly. “I’ll drive you to the hospital.” 

“Yeah, right. Good luck explaining this to anyone. Also, not really interested in seeing any so-called doctors right now, considering they might turn into some fucking manta ray batman and steal me away into the night. No, thank you.” 

Roman scoffed. It wasn't funny, but he couldn't help it. The hate and hunger had subsided briefly and he felt rather guilty for attacking his friend. His only friend. 

Roman helped Peter to the bed, where he sat gingerly. Roman could feel the blood on his back already beginning to dry and the wounds starting to close. Peter’s blood was strong and rushed through his veins with such heat and power that Roman felt invincible. Peter’s wounds were beginning to clot as the wolf beneath the surface healed its vessel. 

“Can I see?” Roman asked. 

“I don’t know. Are you going to fucking bite me again?” Peter snapped.

Roman rolled his eyes and reached forward to remove the blood-soaked towel from Peter’s neck. His long, deft fingers he tenderly tilted Peter’s face to the side to get a better look at the damage. The wound looked ghastly, tattered and caked with quickly drying blood. Roman didn’t know what came over him, but he leaned in, gently licking the blood from around the bites, his body humming with need. Realizing his inappropriate response, Roman pulled back, to see Peter looking at him quizzically, almost amused. Roman wiped his lips hastily and got to his feet. 

“I should go,” Peter said, still eyeing Roman with a curious dark stare. 

“Right. Safe travels, Wolfboy.” Roman turned away, unable to watch Peter leave again. Unable to bear the weight of the loneliness just yet. 

“See you.” 

Roman heard the door click behind him as Peter left and then the rumble of a car engine. And he was gone. Probably forever. 

That night, Roman slept deeply. His dreams swirled with blood, violence and visions of Peter with that dark look in his eyes.


	2. Burn

_It was dusk. The sun hung low on the horizon and should have painted the sky gentle shades of violet, peach and gold. But something was wrong. The sky burned red and angry, blazing and flickering like fire. Peter looked around him. His feet were bare and the grass was cool and damp beneath them. He was outside the Hemlock Grove chapel, the same chapel he nearly died in trying to stop Christina and trying to protect Letha._

_The air around him was completely silent. There were no birds singing their last song of the evening, no whispering of wind through the leaves of trees, no distant car engines or faraway shouts of children. There was only the pure, oppressive silence._

_Peter approached the church, but did not go inside. He walked alongside the external wall, running his hand across the cool stone masonry. Behind the building was the old cemetery, shadowed headstones jutting from the earth and silhouetted by the bloodied sky. There was someone standing in the graveyard, leaning against a headstone. The figure lifted a lit cigarette to its mouth and the cherry burned so brightly that Roman Godfrey’s face was momentarily illuminated, as if on fire. His face returned to shadow as he exhaled, the smoke curling in halos around his hair._

_Peter approached Roman and the silence turned to a roar, like a train tearing through a long tunnel. It wasn’t until Peter was standing directly in front of him that Roman straightened, crushed his cigarette against the headstone and looked Peter in the face. He smiled wickedly and the roaring in Peter’s ears died down and sounds returned to normal._

_“You will not leave me,” Roman said, his eyes wide and intense._

_“What?” Peter asked. His mind felt dazed, drugged._

_Roman placed his long elegant hands on either side of Peter’s face. “You will not leave me. You will never leave me, Peter Rumancek. You cannot.” The flickering sky lit Roman’s face like a demon out of hell, all beauty and sharp angles. A drop of blood fell from Roman’s nose into the grass, and then another. The drops became a steady stream but he did not wipe away the blood._

_“But…I…” Peter stuttered._

_“You belong to me.” Roman smiled a frightening and beautiful smile, lips curling around sharp teeth and Peter flinched._

_Roman’s grip on Peter’s face tightened and Roman’s lips were on Peter’s. His kiss was deep, powerful and tasted of blood. Though the hands on Peter’s face were cool and dry, Roman’s mouth was hot, his tongue probing. Unable to move away or break the kiss, Peter felt himself sinking. The heat was rising in his body, from his groin to his face. It was consuming him. He moaned into Roman’s mouth. He felt as if he might be drowning, but couldn’t convince himself to care. It felt too good, too easy…_

Peter woke in a cold sweat, tangled in a blanket. His head was fuzzy and ached like a hangover, but he hadn’t been drinking. He slowly heaved himself upright, rubbing the blur from his eyes. 

He was on Destiny’s couch. It smelled of stale cigarettes and patchouli, which made Peter’s head spin painfully and crave a smoke. He pulled a crumpled cigarette from the pack on the table and lit it, inhaling slowly and deeply and exhaling to shroud himself in smoke.

That dream felt too real. Thinking about it caused Peter’s stomach to flutter and tighten into knots. He needed a cold shower and to clear his mind. He and Destiny were planning to hit the road that afternoon and head west to stay with some relatives until they could make arrangements to meet Lynda in Romania. But something didn’t feel right. As much as Peter wanted to flee, something in the back of his mind wouldn’t allow it, something that whispered don’t go...you can’t go. Staying in Hemlock Grove would have serious consequences. Peter would be forced to live amongst the ghosts of Letha, Nadia, Miranda, Christina. The bodies were piling up around him and he wasn’t sure he could stand to exist in their absences. Not to mention that he wasn’t sure he could ever look Roman in the eye again after that dream. Admittedly, Peter had experienced some pretty weird dreams since his arrival in Hemlock Grove, but this one made his skin crawl. It wasn’t the kiss that frightened him, per say. It was that horrible feeling of drowning, of losing control of his mind and will to live. It made Peter feel trapped, claustrophobic. It made him want to shed his skin and run until his legs were weak and his body exhausted. But for now, that wasn’t an option. 

Peter put out his cigarette and walked to the bathroom. Destiny must have left for the morning, probably gathering supplies and preparing for their departure. Peter ran his fingers through his hair and gave himself a hard look in the mirror. There were deep purple bruises streaking his rib cage and encircling his neck. To his surprise, the left side of his neck where Roman had bit him was nearly healed. Bruised severely, but the wound had closed leaving only a shiny pink scar tissue as evidence. 

“What the fuck?” Peter asked aloud, examining his neck closer in the mirror. 

Now, Peter healed quickly, a side effect of his condition, but this was too fast. He had expected at least a week before the wound healed to this stage. Peter sighed. The weirdness would never end, he guessed. 

He turned on the cold water in the shower and stepped in. The water felt like a cleansing rain after the burn of his dream. That dream. Peter closed his eyes, recalling the details for any hint of purpose. Peter’s dreams were often ominous and foreboding, foreshadowing things to come, but this one was different. In his mind’s eye he could still see the scene vividly, the chapel, the sky on fire, Roman kissing him. 

The cool water suddenly felt scalding, but Peter made no move to adjust the temperature. He was lost in the dream again, swimming in it, drowning in it. Peter was consumed by that mesmerizing heat that burned so hot if felt cold, or perhaps the other way around. 

Somewhere in the apartment, a door slammed and Peter was shaken from his meditations. His eyes snapped open. He had braced himself against the shower wall; head hung and cool water streaming down his face. He was seriously aroused and seriously uncomfortable with the source. Peter groaned. 

He could hear Destiny puttering around in the apartment, probably readying her things and packing a carpet bag stuffed with crystals, nag champa, beaded door-hangings, other hippie shit. Peter washed up quickly and got out of the shower. He tied a towel low around his waist and walked into the living room. 

As predicted, Destiny was stuffing items haphazardly into a bag. 

“I wonder if I’ll be able to pick up anymore Nightshade before we leave for Romania. You never know when you’ll need it,” Destiny said absentmindedly. She glanced up at Peter and stopped in her tracks. 

“Destiny, I can’t go,” Peter said solemnly. 

“What the fuck are you talking about? This was your idea, Peter,” Destiny said. 

“I know. Things are really fucked up and I want to go, trust me. But I can’t. I don’t know how to explain it. But I just can’t leave. I can’t run away this time. Not yet,” Peter said, pushing wet hair from his face and staring intently at the floor, afraid to meet Destiny’s judging gaze. 

“You mean you won’t leave him. That boy has got you seriously fucked up, Peter. This codependent bullshit is so unlike you,” Destiny said, hands firmly on her hips. 

“I don’t know what to tell you. Roman’s my friend and I can’t abandon him,” Peter said. 

“You did it before! If you hadn’t come running back with your tail between your legs you’d probably be fucking happy and could have moved on from all this horrific shit. Instead, you came back and everything got worse. What the fuck do you think is going to happen if you stay?” Destiny said accusingly. 

“Things will probably get worse!” Peter threw up his hands, exasperated. “You go, get out of Hemlock Grove. But I can’t. I have to stay.” 

“Roman has done a number on you, you know that, don’t you Peter? He’s fucked with your head. You do realize you are covered in bruises, right? Let me guess, Roman beat the shit out of you and somehow tricked you into feeling like it’s your fault. You don’t owe him anything. He’s an Upir and eventually he is going to lose control and he is going to kill you. He’ll rip your throat out without thinking twice,” Destiny spat. 

Reflexively, Peter’s hand flew to his throat before he could stop himself. He felt the heat rise in his face. 

“You stupid bastard! He’s already attacked you! You’re lucky to be alive, Peter. Next time, you won’t be so lucky.” Destiny threw down her bag, turned on her heel and stormed out of the room. Peter sunk down on the couch, head between his hands. 

He sat that way for a few moments, feeling guilty. 

“Shit,” he said aloud as he pulled on his jeans and some dirty shirt, threw on his jacket and walked out the door.


	3. Bender

Roman left the top down on his recently acquired shiny, blue Porsche. A particularly rare model, he had the 1950 356 Cabriolet shipped in from Stuttgart a week ago. Despite the chill in the air, it seemed disrespectful not enjoy her to her fullest. Right hand on the wheel, Roman smoked a cigarette with his left, leaving in his wake a trail of smoke and swirling debris. The purr of the engine and Peter’s blood in his veins made Roman feel powerful. But he knew the relief was temporary. It was only a matter of time before the hunger would return and he would feel the full impact of Peter’s absence. There was only one viable solution. 

The dread settled firmly in Roman’s gut as he pulled up to the White Tower. He tossed the car keys to a bewildered-looking doorman and strode into the building, propelled forward only by a concentrated force of will. Roman stepped into the elevator and selected the sub-basement floor home to Dr. Pryce’s lab. 

Dr. Pryce was waiting for Roman in front of the small electrical panel that concealed the laboratory from unauthorized eyes.

“Roman,” Pryce nodded, cordially. “You’re looking well.” Pryce pushed back the false wall and ushered Roman into the laboratory with a sweeping gesture of his arm.

Roman snorted and stepped through the threshold. The buzz of florescent lighting and the scent of disinfectant made Roman’s skin crawl and his eyes burn painfully. He was acutely aware of his heightened senses since feeding on Peter and Pryce’s prison of science made Roman feel even more like a caged animal. 

Pryce was watching Roman with unguarded caution, peering at him out of the corners of his eyes, leaving ample distance between himself and the agitated Upir. He glanced away from Roman briefly to press his hand against the security screen at the far end of the lab. The heavy steel door buzzed a confirmation and swung open, revealing the large glass tank within. The tank was filled with a gelatinous goo and unidentifiable pieces of spongy flesh that swirled slowly and thickly. 

“Go ahead,” Pryce said to Roman, gesturing to the industrial spigot located on the far side of the tank.  


“I’ll take mine to go, thanks,” Roman said. 

Pryce’s eyes widened. “You’ve been feeding then. I can’t have any more bodies piling up in the morgue, Roman. I’ve barely finished cleaning up after your last little massacre, not to mention the damage Olivia inflicted,” Pryce trailed off, catching the brief flicker of pain in Roman’s eyes. 

Roman steeled his expression. “No need to get out the body bags so soon, Doctor. My lunch escaped with their life, this time.” 

Pryce appeared momentarily relieved. 

“Any changes in your condition that I should be aware of?” Pryce asked. 

Roman pressed his hands and forehead flat against the glass of the tank, watching the contents churning thickly. He could have sworn he saw a lone eyeball float past. What exactly had Pryce done with the heap of bodies Roman had delivered him? 

“What, like bursting into flames in sunlight? Fangs? An affinity for helpless, sexually repressed white women with a death wish? No, nothing so cliché. Just some good, old-fashioned, run of the mill bloodlust, but thanks for checking in.” Roman turned from the tank and gave Pryce a sardonic look. 

“This is no joke, Roman. You abandoned your treatment with only one session remaining. There will be side effects, whether they’ve presented themselves yet, or not. You need to exercise some caution,” Pryce warned.

Roman shrugged. Admittedly, the hunger had increased. Not to mention the particularly bazaar dreams Roman had last night. They had been filled with fire and rage and he had awoken to a bloody nose and a ringing in his ears. 

“Just give me a take-out container of the human goo and I’ll be on my way,” Roman said dismissively, turning away from Pryce. 

The scientist sighed and walked out of the room, returning with a small jar to collect the gelatinous substance. 

“Bigger,” Roman said flatly. 

Pryce shook his head and went to retrieve a larger container.

“Pack it up for me, will you? I’d like to visit Shelley before I go,” Roman said. 

Pryce nodded solemnly. 

Roman rode the elevator to the top floor of the White Tower. The hallway was a bright white, shining in the sunlight leading to a pair of swinging hospital doors. Through the doors was Shelley’s room. It had large, clean windows that looked out over the sleepy town. Shelley lay in a hospital bed in the corner of the large room. Her eyes were closed but her brow was furrowed. A series of tubes spurted from her arms and connected to a number of clicking, beeping machines. 

His poor, beautiful sister. Roman gently smoothed Shelley’s tuft of hair from the left side of her face. As Roman feared, she was heavily sedated and would not wake. As he looked at his sister’s face, Roman could feel the anger welling inside of him. _This_ , he thought. _This is Olivia’s fault._ Roman could hardly hold back a sneer at the thought of his mother. She was a sick and selfish creature, unfit to be Shelley’s mother. Unfit for this world. 

“Don’t worry, Shelley,” Roman whispered. “I’ll find her. I’ll make her pay for what she did to you. I will rip out her heart and watch the light in her eyes die. Then we will be free.” 

Roman bent forward and kissed his sister softly on the forehead before turning to leave. 

****

Roman felt the tension in his chest release its grip slightly as he sped away from the Godfrey Institute. He hated leaving Shelley there all alone, but he knew it was the only place she would be safe. Pryce had always been fond of her and Roman knew that he would do anything to protect her from the pitchforks of the Hemlock Grove residents. 

Roman drove without thinking. His mind was fixated on reaching the cold, modern structure he now called home to sleep for a thousand years so he wouldn’t have to think about how alone he was again. But as he was driving, a vision flashed into his mind: a blood red sky, a deafening silence and the taste of smoke. Roman slowed the Porsche to a stop at the side of the road, rubbing his eyes to convince them to focus. When he opened his eyes, colorful stars danced in his peripheral before focusing, revealing the humble stone masonry of the Hemlock Grove Chapel. Just past the looming structure, Roman could see outlines of the crumbling gravestones set against the darkening sky. 

Roman hadn’t been back to the church since the night Peter saved Roman and Letha from the Vargulf, the night Shelley saved Peter. And yet, there was something familiar about the scene and the way the cemetery was silhouetted by the sky. Something that reminded him of Peter. 

The tight feeling of arousal burned in the pit of Roman’s stomach and he suppressed a shocked groan. _What the fuck._ Roman shook his head violently, clearing his mind of the confusing memory. He started the engine and pulled away from the curb and turned the car in the opposite direction. He couldn’t go home tonight. 

Roman followed the highway for a little over an hour before he reached his destination. He killed the engine in front of an industrial concrete building located outside Hemlock Grove. The building was painted in graffiti and trash littered the walkway. It would have appeared abandoned had it not been for the scattered individuals outside, bleary-eyed and smoking and the low, reverberating thumps coming up from the ground. 

A large, bald-headed man with neck tattoos nodded to Roman as he entered the building and descended the narrow, winding staircase. Roman had frequented the club a number of times since he discovered it as a teenager. It was dark, anonymous and had no qualms about serving alcohol and controlled substances to underage kids with enough cash. 

The music was loud and the bass thumped so hard Roman could feel the vibrations in his teeth. Colored strobe lights cut through the darkness, illuminating the shiny, sweating faces of the intoxicated, beautiful bodies writhing on the dance floor. The air smelled of smoke and sex and it calmed Roman. He slicked back his hair with his hands, straightened the collar of his expensive black shirt and headed toward the bar. 

The bartender was a scrawny man with too many piercings in his face and long scraggly hair. Roman could smell the junk in his blood before he could see the track marks that lined his arms. The club was brimming with easy prey. 

Roman ordered three shots of expensive scotch, paying in large, crisp bills. He threw them back, one after another, relishing the burn in the back of his throat. He stood there for some time, watching the crowd, smelling the desperation that permeated the room. Across the dance floor, he spotted a young woman. She was twitchy and nervous, constantly shifting her weight from foot to foot. 

The girl grinned as Roman approached, arching her back and jutting her ample breasts toward Roman. A less than subtle invitation. 

“Hey,” she purred. “Wanna dance?” 

When Roman didn’t immediately respond, she danced around Roman, shimmying her shoulders and wiggling her ass. 

He smirked. “No, thanks.” He looked her up and down. She was good looking enough. Soft in all the right places with pale blonde hair and round, doe eyes. Just the way he liked them. 

“Well, what do you want then?” She pouted. 

“Care to share what you’re hiding?” he asked, gesturing at the corner of a plastic bag shoved down her shirt and pulling a few folded bills from his pocket, waving them in front of her face. 

She grinned and snatched the cash hungrily. She grabbed Roman by the hand, pulling him toward the bathrooms. Roman followed her into a grimy stall with a sticky floor and locked the door behind them. The florescent lights flickered and buzzed above them as the girl pulled a little bag of white powder from deep in her neon pink bra. 

She licked her lips fiendishly as she tapped the powder onto the top of the tank of the toilet. She pulled out one of Roman’s twenty dollar bills and rolled it tightly before holding it to her pierced nostril and inhaling deeply, her nose whistling. 

She handed the bill to Roman, but he shook his head, taking the plastic baggie from her. He pushed her against the wall of the bathroom stall and poured a small pile of the cocaine onto the fullest part of her breast. He inhaled the powder in one sharp breath, licking the remainder languorously as she giggled. 

Roman’s head was beginning to buzz and hum, massaging away all his most disquieting thoughts. She snorted another line off the toilet tank, throwing back her head and exposing her throat. Roman could see the pulse pushing against the delicate skin of her neck, beckoning him. He swallowed once, hard. 

And then he was on her, first licking and kissing the hollow of her throat, which was slick with sweat and hot against his tongue. She let out a yelp when he broke the skin, the blood bursting from her jugular and careening down his chin and chest. She made to scream but he held a hand over her mouth, pushing roughly against her face. She tried to squirm free but Roman’s grip was too tight. The blood filled his mouth, the metallic flavor sliding soothingly over his tongue and down his throat. Roman was lost in it. It wasn’t until the blood stopped pumping furiously from the wound that he drew back. 

The girl’s eyes were glossy and wide and a tear dropped from the corner, spilling down her lifeless cheek. Roman flung himself backwards against the stall door, releasing his hold on her. She slipped stiffly onto the ground like discarded doll. 

_Shit._ Roman whimpered helplessly as he tore at her tank top, using the cloth to wipe the blood from his face. He lifted the girl and propped her on the toilet seat before rushing from the stall, pulling the door closed behind him. 

There were two women standing at the bathroom sinks, fixing their lipstick and wiping the smeared mascara from beneath their eyes. They took one look at Roman’s face before fleeing the room. Roman examined himself anxiously in the mirror. He had gotten most the blood off his face, save for a smear of red at the corner of his mouth. He splashed his face with cold water and jetted toward the door before quickly turning back to the bathroom stall with the girl’s body and snatching the little bag of powder from her stiffening hand. 

Roman was out the door, up the stairs and in the car in seconds. Once a safe distance from the club, a lump rose in Roman’s throat, choking him and sending tears careening down his face. He pounded the steering wheel with the heels of his hand, letting out an animal wail and cursing his weak will. Gasping for air between sobs, he fumbled for the cocaine in his pocket. Releasing the wheel, he poured the powder onto the back of his hand and inhaled it, all of it, before returning his hands to the wheel and pushing down hard on the gas pedal. 

When Roman finally arrived back home, he parked the car haphazardly in the middle of the lawn and stumbled toward the door, furiously wiping tears from his face. As he reached the door he stopped dead in his tracks. There was a body slumped on his porch, head hung, eyes closed, breathing steady, sleeping breaths. 

_Fuck._ Peter.


	4. Remember That You're Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shee-it, ya'll might kill me for this one. It's kind of painfully short. 
> 
> I recommend listening to Lana del Rey's "Blue Jeans" on a loop while reading this. It's just too perfect.  
> Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JRWox-i6aAk

“Peter?” 

Peter opened his eyes. Roman was crouching in front of him with one hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him awake. Roman’s eyes were red- rimmed and glassy, his skin flushed. 

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be halfway to Oregon, or whatever, by now?” Roman asked.  


Peter got to his feet. Roman stood with him, impossibly tall despite the slump in his shoulders. Roman leaned his back against the front door, hand resting on the knob, his eyes on the ground. 

“I needed to talk to you,” Peter replied. 

Roman shrugged, turning the knob and opening the door behind him. Peter approached Roman, who remained unmoving in the door frame. He could smell liquor, sweat and the sickly sweet smell of cheap lingerie store perfume. He gave Roman a hard look, pushing past him into the foyer. 

Peter hated this house. It was all harsh lines and empty spaces, an endless sea of taupe and black. The only furniture was minimal and austere, offering no comfort or relief. The emptiness made Peter anxious and it was the only reason he didn’t just break into the place while waiting all day for Roman to return. He was more comfortable outside. He could breathe more freely outdoors, unburdened by Roman’s presence that permeated every room. The smell of the place had that same metallic tang of freshly drawn blood and the cool, soapy scent of expensive cologne that Peter had smelled on Roman the first day they met. It made the wolf inside Peter wary. He could feel it pacing back and forth every time he was near Roman. The feeling, like the scent, was intoxicating. 

Roman closed the door behind him. His usually perfectly-coiffed hair had come loose, falling over one eye in a slick tendril. He put his hands in his pockets, his stance wide, defensive.

Peter shifted uncomfortably. 

“Peter, why are you here?” Roman asked, his voice strained.

“You know,” Peter said.

Roman raised his eyebrows, crossing his arms across his chest. 

“I’m staying,” Peter said, with a sigh. 

Roman’s posture relaxed, the hardened expression on his face cracking. And then he smiled. He actually fucking smiled, a wide, relieved smile reaching all the way to his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. When he lifted his eyes to Peter's, they were brimming with tears that never spilled over. 

“God, Peter. Something is wrong with me. I’ve lost control completely. You have to help me, I can’t do this alone. I need you," he said, his voice broken and begging. 

Peter was taken aback. Roman had always been unstable, there was no question. But he was normally able to keep his cool, never losing complete control of the fine veneer he presented to the world. The anguished look on his face reminded Peter of the Renaissance paintings of dejected angels, cast from heaven, alone, suffering and abandoned by their God. 

Roman took a step toward Peter. 

“Everything I touch breaks, it just stops breathing and dies,” he said, eyes pleading. 

“I don’t break that easily,” Peter said, his voice low. 

The look in Roman’s eyes shifted, darkening dangerously. His posture was predatory. Peter feared for a moment that Roman was going to attack him, test his resilience. 

In one long stride, Roman closed the distance between them and before he could resist, Roman's hands were on Peter’s face, fingers wrapping around the back of his head, tangling in his hair. He kissed Peter desperately, like he was drowning and Peter was the oxygen at the surface. 

Peter reacted immediately, returning Roman’s kiss with ferocity, arms encircling his waist and fingers raking down his back. Roman tasted just as Peter had imagined, like blood tinged with the bitter, antiseptic taste of cocaine and the musk of cigarette smoke. It was the taste of pure sex and Peter had expected nothing less. Roman wasn’t gentle, his tongue hot and his grip on Peter so tight it bruised. But his lips were soft, so unbelievably soft. 

Roman pushed Peter against the wall without breaking the kiss, ripping at the buttons on Peter’s rumpled shirt and tearing it from his shoulders. Roman pressed the full length of his body against Peter, inciting a growl from deep inside him. The feral sound caused Roman’s breath to catch in his throat. He ran his lips down Peter’s neck, pausing at the nearly healed bite scars. He pulled back slightly, lifting his eyes to Peter’s. A smirk danced at the corner of his lips, full and wet from their kiss. 

Roman kissed the scar softly like an apology. He placed his hands on the wall on either side of Peter’s face, bending over him possessively. His eyes were electric and the stare made Peter feel dizzy. Roman caught Peter’s lips in another kiss. 

“You belong to me,” Roman murmured against Peter’s mouth, running his tongue along Peter’s bottom lip.

An alarm went off in Peter’s brain, a memory pushing itself to the front of his dizzied thoughts. It was Roman, standing in Hemlock Grove cemetery with that same look in his eyes, the flickering red sky reflecting on his face and casting deep shadows over his angelic features. 

_You belong to me_ , he said.

Peter’s eyes snapped open. His hands flew to Roman’s chest, grabbing white-knuckled handfuls of Roman’s crisp, black dress shirt. Peter pushed himself away from the wall, using his grip on Roman to spin him around, slamming his back hard against the wall. 

Roman let out a laugh before Peter’s mouth came crashing down upon his, shoving his tongue against Roman’s, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Roman inhaled sharply through his nose, pushing wide-spread fingers through Peter’s hair. He pulled back from Peter, wiping the droplets of blood from his lips and licking it slowly from his fingers, eyes locked on Peter. 

Peter was on fire, his body at war. The wolf in his subconscious was tearing at him, urging him to flee at the first scent of fresh blood. Every nerve in his body was alight, drawn like magnets to Roman. Peter’s better instincts were instantly abandoned. 

He pulled Roman towards him, sucking his lip gently, tasting the blood. It was Roman’s turn to growl. He hooked two fingers into the front of Peter’s jeans, pulling Peter against him and running his palm against the bulge in Peter’s pants. His long fingers deftly removed Peter’s belt, pulling it from the loops with a sharp snap. He unbuttoned Peter’s jeans and pulled down the zipper, pushing his hand down the front of his pants, beneath the elastic of his boxers and taking Peter’s aching erection in his hand.  
Peter moaned loudly, pressing his hips into Roman, who smiled wickedly. 

The roar of the rush of blood in Peter’s ears was so loud he almost didn’t hear the buzz of the doorbell. His hands were in Roman’s hair and his lips against his neck as Roman’s fingers ran the length of him. 

The doorbell buzzed again, more persistent this time. It rang a third time. 

Roman snarled and pulled back his hand. Peter’s eyes fluttered and he leaned involuntarily toward Roman, shocked awake by the loss of his touch. Roman gave Peter a long look before pulling away. He adjusted the bulge in his pants with one hand as he stalked toward the door, flinging it open vehemently. 

The figure stood in the doorway, hip jutted to one side, a towering white, marble column with dark hair that fell in soft waves, framing cheekbones sharp enough to cut. 

“Hello, darling,” Olivia said.


	5. The Return of the White Witch

“Hello, darling,” Olivia said sweetly. 

“Olivia,” Roman seethed.  “Your timing is impeccable.” 

Olivia smiled widely, all teeth.  She glanced behind Roman at Peter, who was hastily buttoning his jeans and grabbing his crumpled shirt from the floor.  Olivia’s head cocked to one side, smile faltering.  Peter was like a wolf caught in a pair of headlights, startled and poised for attack. 

Olivia reached for Roman lovingly with one white, long-fingered hand but he ducked away from her touch.  She used this opportunity to side step Roman and sauntered into the foyer.  She looked the room, appraising Roman’s new abode.  She picked some arbitrary decorative vase off a side table, turning it between her hands and setting it back down.  She wandered past Peter into the living room, running her hands along the leather sofa and examined a black and white painting leaning against the wall with disinterest.  She was pacing like a dangerous predator in a small cage.

Roman and Peter remained silent where they stood, eyeing each other cautiously. 

“Peter, would you give my son and me a moment alone?” Olivia asked, turning to Peter.

Peter looked to Roman but made no move to leave. 

“Peter stays,” Roman said flatly. 

Olivia’s eyes flashed dangerously and she walked slowly toward Peter.  She stopped halfway, pausing to bend over and pick up Peter’s belt that had been flung halfway to the living room.  Peter’s posture tensed. 

Olivia stood directly in front of Peter, towering over him menacingly, still smiling.  She held the belt between two fingers, dangling it in front of Peter, who snatched it from her with a snarl.  It seemed to amuse Olivia.  She looked to Roman before swinging one long arm with incredible speed, backhanding Peter across the face and sending him flying backward.  Peter’s head hit the corner of the marble breakfast bar with a sickening crack.  When he turned to face his attacker, his eyes were glowing yellow, his teeth bared and lengthen as blood careened down his face from a gash in his forehead.  The skin on his hands was starting to tear away from his fists, fingers bending and breaking. 

Roman sprinted at Olivia.  He slammed into her with the force of a speeding train but she was like a brick wall.  She didn’t even falter.  Olivia caught Roman by the neck, lifting him off the ground and tossing him easily backwards.  She stalked towards him, predatory, her pupils dilating and her eyes nearly black.  Before she reached Roman, Peter came hurtling at her.  He was a flurry of claws and teeth mid-transformation.  The bones along his back jutted and broke, curving his spine and tearing the pale skin.  He had Olivia on her back, standing over her on all fours as bloody chunks of flesh fell around them, staining Olivia’s white dress.  Peter’s human mouth opened wide and a long canine nose pushed between his lips, tearing them at the corners, splitting his face from cheek to ear.  The wolf, nose to nose with Olivia, snarled as bits of blood and spittle dripped in slimy strings onto her face.  The rest of the wolf’s face pushed itself through Peter’s mouth, wearing the remainder of its human face like a scarf around the black fur of its neck.  The wolf let out a growl from deep within and the last of Peter’s skin fell from its back, falling around Olivia in wet puddles. 

The wolf clamped its long, sharp teeth around Olivia’s throat, biting just hard enough to break the skin and hold her fast.  Roman collected himself from the floor, smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt.  He approached Olivia. 

“What a good dog you have, darling,” Olivia said, a smile playing upon her lips.  The wolf tightened its grip and Olivia’s blood began to pool around her, but she seemed unfazed. 

Roman’s mother had never been particularly warm toward him, yet he struggled to reconcile the image of her from his childhood with the monster held between Peter’s teeth.  She had always been cold and selfish, but she had doted upon her favorite son, her heir.  She had probably loved him the only way she knew how.  And Roman had certainly loved her once, the beginning of a cycle of painfully unrequited love that would plague all of Roman’s future relationships.  But any lingering affection for his mother was gone now. 

“Come now, darling.  Let’s be civil.  Let’s talk,” Olivia cooed. 

“No,” Roman snapped.  “You’re done talking.”

“Call off your pet.  I take no pleasure in killing your friends, Roman,” Olivia said.  She looked up into Peter’s yellow eyes and Roman was quite certain there was no truth in those words.  But Olivia was stronger and faster than Peter and Roman.  She had allowed the wolf to overtake her if only to test him.   

Olivia had been aware of Roman’s infatuation with Peter since the beginning and he knew that she resented him for stealing away Roman’s affections and turning him against her.  She would have no qualms killing Peter and leaving Roman to suffer. 

Roman gestured to Peter dismissively.  The wolf gave a rumbling growl before releasing Olivia’s neck with great reluctance. 

Olivia stood gracefully, straightening her blood-stained dress. 

“Good boy,” she said to Peter.  “Honestly, Roman I expected a much warmer reception.”

“Oh?  You killed Norman and you destroyed Shelley.  You have virtually made my life a living hell, and you expect me to be happy to see you?  Are you completely insane?” Roman asked, his rage bubbling just below the surface. 

Olivia just smiled again and pulled a folded piece of paper from some unseen corner of her very tight dress.  She held the piece of paper out to Roman, who eyed it warily. 

The wolf paced next to Roman, hackles up.  He didn’t take his eyes from Olivia as Roman snatched the slip of paper from her manicured fingers and unfolded it carefully. 

It was a map.  In the bottom corner of the map was Hemlock Grove, a web of colorful intersecting lines and dots representing of the streets and civic buildings in the small town.  The upper corner of the map had been marked with a circle in red felt-tip pen, which bled on the thin paper, little tendrils of ink flowing out from the marked location.  The circle seemed to indicate a location somewhere in the center of Sproul State Forest, north of Hemlock Grove.  Roman had never been there but he had seen pictures on postcards at souvenir shops downtown.  The photographs on the postcards depicted rolling green hills and clear, clean rivers snaking through dense coniferous forests.

“What is this?  You want to take a family vacation or something?  Not interested,” Roman said, shoving the map back toward Olivia. 

“No,” Olivia said.  “It’s where they are hiding her.”

The wolf stopped pacing and turned sharply toward Olivia.   

“Her?” Roman asked.  “Nadia?”

“Is that what you’re calling her?  You couldn’t come up with something more, I don’t know, dignified?  It just sounds so _pedestrian_ ,” Olivia said, her face twisting nastily as if she had tasted something bitter.

“Olivia, are you telling me that you know where Nadia is?” Roman asked. 

“Yes, darling,” Olivia said.  “That crack doctor Spivak thought he could steal my granddaughter away from me.  He is a fool.   That child is our legacy, Roman.  Spivak will use her up and throw her away once he gets what he wants.  If you want her back alive, there isn’t much time.”

“You’re lying.  How do you know this?” Roman asked incredulously.  “What does he want with Nadia?  She’s a baby, for God sakes.”

 Roman knew the falseness of his words before they even spilled from his mouth.  Nadia was anything but an average baby.  Roman hadn’t met many infants capable of causing spontaneous lactation or the ability to explode the heads of anyone who threatened her.  No, Nadia was different and she was dangerous, but she was his child.  More importantly, she was Letha’s child and she was all Roman had left of her.  He had to protect Nadia. 

Olivia just shook her head. 

“You’ll find Spivak there,” she pointed to the bleeding red circle on the map.  “If you want her, you’ll have to go and get her.  I doubt they’ll surrender her easily.  You might want to bring your dog.” 

Olivia reached out as if to pet the black wolf.  As expected, Peter snapped at her, his teeth gnashing against each other, snarling.  Olivia pulled back her hand, laughing quietly.  She leaned in and kissed Roman on the cheek, lingering just slightly too long and breathing him in deeply.  She stepped back, caressed his cheek gently and turned to leave.

The door slammed behind her.  Roman looked at the map again.  His mind was filled with questions.  He didn’t trust Olivia.  She was conniving and shrewd and it would not be out of character for her to send Roman racing towards his demise.  On the other hand, Olivia believed that there was something special about Nadia.  Like Roman, his daughter had been born with the caul, a thin, porous skin stretched over the baby’s face at birth.  It was thought that children born with a caul would lead lives of importance and greatness.  Would Olivia sacrifice a powerful Upir of her own blood now that her prodigal son no longer cared for her?

Roman was lost in thought.  When he looked up from the map, the wolf was gone.  Peter was crawling naked from a heap of flesh and fur, some of which was still clinging to his hair and sliding down his skin, leaving shiny, translucent trails like slugs.

Peter pushed the slimy hair from his face.  His eyes were hollow and framed with dark circles, his face was caked with blood.  He looked exhausted.  He pulled a chunk of spongy wolf flesh from his hair and held it away from his face before dropping it to the floor with a wet slap.  Peter sighed.    

“Can I use your shower?” he asked. 

“Uh, yeah.  Upstairs, end of the hall,” Roman said, gesturing absentmindedly in the general direction of the master bathroom. 

Peter grabbed his clothes from the floor and held them in front of himself modestly and headed off toward the bathroom without another word. 

Roman watched him go, a bit mournfully.  For half a second, he considered following Peter, but the moment was gone. 

He went to his laptop and pulled up an aerial map of the Sproul Forest.  It was about two hundred miles from Hemlock Grove.  If they drove fast, they could be there in a few hours.  But the red circle was placed deep into the green expanse that was the park.  Finding Nadia wouldn’t be easy but at least there was a lead.  There was hope. 

Roman was lost in his thoughts again when Peter reemerged.  He was clean and dressed.  His wet hair dripped onto his shoulders leaving dark, damp stains on his shirt.  Roman recognized the scent of his own expensive shampoo wafting off him.  He desperately wanted to go to Peter, to push the hair from his face and smell the soap on his skin.  But, he resisted.  Peter wouldn’t look him in the eye and Roman could feel his hesitancy. 

“I’m going to look for Nadia.  I’ll leave tomorrow,” Roman said. 

“Yeah, okay,” Peter said.  “I should go with you.  Someone like you won’t make it ten feet into the forest without a heart attack.  There will be dirt there.”

Roman chuckled.

“You can stay here tonight and get some rest, if you want,” Roman said hopefully. 

“No,” Peter said too quickly.  “Thanks, but no.  I better head back home.  Destiny will be worried.” 

“Right, of course.  Can’t have that,” Roman said.  His heart sunk.

Roman walked Peter to the door, leaning against the frame.  He opened his mouth to offer Peter a ride, but Peter held up his hand, quieting him.

“I’ll walk,” he said. 

Peter walked away into the dark alone.  Roman just watched him go. 

Peter had stayed in Hemlock Grove.  He had been waiting for Roman on his doorstep like a damn lost puppy and yet, the closer they got, the harder Peter pushed Roman away.  It made Roman’s heart ache and his stomach growl.  Peter had made him momentarily forget about the blonde girl covered in blood he had left lying in a bathroom stall.  He had forgotten about the insatiable hunger that gnawed at him every minute of every day.  Despite the fact that they were both monsters on the inside, when he was with Peter, he felt human, if only for a moment. 

 

 

 

 

      


	6. Tension

There was a sharp, stabbing pain in Peter’s gut. He braced himself against a tree as his body convulsed, sending him quaking to his knees in the dirt. He retched painfully, spitting up lumpy wads of blackened, coagulated blood. He clutched his stomach and breathed in the smell of damp earth to center him. The nausea rolled over him in waves that made his head spin and his vision blurry. 

Peter thought he would eventually become accustomed to changing against the moon, but his body fought him every time. He needed to rest and he knew that he should have stayed at Roman’s to recover, but he just couldn’t bring himself to stay. Olivia’s abrupt arrival was a rude awakening from the dreamy, lustful encounter. The thought of Romans hands on his skin and soft lips against his made Peter’s stomach flip and his teeth clench. They had crossed a line, a line they had been toeing for some time now. It was a line Peter never even intended to cross. What had come over him? 

Any interaction with Roman was a mind fuck. Peter was never sure if his thoughts were his own around his friend. Like his mother, Roman was manipulative by nature. He could twist your thoughts around his little finger and convince you to do whatever his whim. It frightened and angered Peter that he couldn’t trust his only friend to stay the fuck out of his head. 

But all of it had felt so real. Kissing Roman had unearthed a violent passion in Peter that he had never felt with anyone else. With Letha, with Miranda, with everyone else, Peter had always been gentle and tender. He had kept the wolf at bay so as not to hurt his more delicate lovers. Peter had never had a partner that he couldn’t crush or break. He had never been with someone who liked to bleed. When he was with Roman, Peter and the wolf were no longer at odds; they were one.

Peter pushed the thoughts from his mind. He had to focus on getting home. He pulled himself from the dirt and got to his feet gingerly. He felt weak and lightheaded and stumbled a few feet before his vision went spotty and then black and he was on the ground again. 

Splayed out in the mud, Peter fumbled for his phone in his pocket and stabbed at the screen. A voice answered and he mumbled something incoherent before his vision blurred and he lost consciousness. 

****

_The air smelled clean and fresh with the scent of cold rain on the soft, thirsty earth. The sun was filtering through the dense trees, leaving sparkling patterns on the mossy ground. Peter looked around him but could see nothing but a never-ending sea of forest, all green and brown and quiet._

_The peaceful silence was shattered by the piercing cry of a baby. Peter ran toward the sound but it only seemed to get further away. He ran until his legs burned and his breathing was ragged. He stopped to catch his breath, his hands on his knees and the salty sweat dripping down his face and into his eyes. When he stood up again, there was a house directly in front of him._

_It was a crumbling, squat little building with square windows and a red door. The wood paneling was stained and splintered and the roof was covered in a blanket of plush green moss. Peter heard the baby cry again and rushed to the door. He tried to open the door but the second his hand touched the knob it seared his skin, causing it to blister and bubble painfully. Peter kicked the door in frustration and ran to the window. He pushed his face against the glass, shadowing his eyes with his hands._

_The windows were filthy and it was dark inside the house, but he could see something moving. As his eyes adjusted, he could see the outline of a wicker basket with a small, pale child inside. But there was something else. There was something long and dark slithering languidly around the basket. Peter saw the head of a snake rise from the dusty cabin floor and wrap itself around the baby’s tiny body. The baby stopped crying briefly._

_Peter panicked. He attempted to smash the glass from the windows but no matter how hard he beat them with his fists and elbows, they did not crack. The snake hissed at Peter, displaying long, sharp fangs dripping with murky venom. It lunged at the window and there was a blinding flash of blue light, sending Peter flying backwards._

****

Peter woke to the feeling of a cool, soft hand on his forehead. He opened his eyes to see Destiny leaning over him with a knowing look. Her eyebrows were knit together with concern, her hair falling around her face in dark, shiny curls. She handed Peter a mug of something hot and herbal. Just the smell of it warmed Peter from the inside out. 

“How did I get here?” Peter asked, sipping at the hot liquid. It tasted like crushed up pine needles and dirt and burned his throat like liquor. 

“We dragged your ass out of the woods,” Destiny explained. “What the fuck were you doing out there, Peter? Don’t tell me you…” she lowered her voice. “You didn’t change on a bad moon again, did you?”

“We?” Peter asked, ignoring Destiny’s accusations. 

Andreas appeared out of one of the back rooms. He was munching on a piece of toast and waved to Peter casually, crumbs spilling from his mouth as he gave Peter a friendly smile. 

“You didn’t think I could drag you out of there alone, did you? Super strength is not one of my abilities,” said Destiny. 

“Destiny, I think…” Peter hesitated. “I think I know where Nadia is.”

“Peter, I know you loved Letha, but I think you should stay out of it,” Destiny warned. 

“Olivia came back. She gave Roman a map to Sproul Forest. And I had this dream,” Peter said, recalling the alarming details of the dream vividly. 

“Yeah, well I’ve been having dreams too, Peter. And my dreams say something seriously evil is coming and it heading straight for Roman Godfrey,” Destiny said. 

“What do you mean?” Peter asked. 

“I mean you should stay away from him unless you want to get caught up in this mess!” Destiny said in a shrill voice. 

“Destiny, we’ve been through this. This evil thing you say is looking for Roman, well, I’m pretty sure it’s looking for me too. I’ve been having dreams about it for weeks. You’ve seen it. It nearly killed you. It isn’t just going to let me go back to my life. It’s going to follow me wherever I go,” Peter said. 

It was true. Peter’s visions of the black snake had plagued him for some time now. They disrupted him almost every time he closed his eyes. The snake, the thing that took Nadia, the Godfreys, they were all connected. And somehow, Peter had gotten tangled up in all of it. There was only one way out of hell, and it was through the front door. Peter would have to go with Roman and stop whatever it was that took Nadia and haunted his dreams. He knew his life, everyone’s life, might depend on it. 

“Sproul Forest?” Destiny sighed. “I guess I better pack some camping gear.”

“No. No way. You are not going,” Peter said resolutely. 

“Peter, you’re going to need me. You can’t expect to find this thing on your own. I can help,” she said. 

“It will be dangerous. I’m not going to risk your life,” Peter said. 

“It is mine to risk. Anyway, we have to stick together. I’ll be there to make sure Roman keeps his Vulcan Mind Melding to himself,” Destiny said with a quick smile. 

“What about you, Andreas?” Peter asked.

Andreas was standing in the kitchen pouring himself a cup of coffee, seemingly uninterested in their conversation. 

“I’ll have to catch up with you. There are some things I have to do,” he said. 

“Oh? Mysterious CIA-type things with guns and silencers?” Peter asked incredulously. 

“Yeah something like that,” Andreas smirked. “Keep Destiny safe for me. I know you will.” 

“Sure,” Peter said. 

****

When Peter and Destiny arrived at Roman’s house, he was out in the driveway attempting to cram a rather large suitcase into the trunk of one of his vintage cars.

“We’re not driving that into the woods,” Peter said matter-of-factly, pointing to the shiny old car. 

Roman didn’t turn around, he just pushed on the suitcase even harder. 

“Roman, we’re not going on a European vacation. What the hell is all that stuff for?” Peter asked, approaching the vehicle. 

Roman spun around. His eyes were cold and filled with loathing and Peter was taken aback. Although he wasn’t sure what he expected. 

“Some of us can’t survive on dead bunnies and squirrels in the woods, Rumancek,” Roman spat. He unzipped the suitcase to display a row of large glass containers filled with some sort of viscous liquid. 

Destiny was standing behind Peter and peered over his shoulder at the suitcase, gagging theatrically. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Roman asked Destiny. 

“I’m here to help, Godfrey. I’ll drive,” Destiny said, gesturing at the station wagon. 

Roman looked longingly at his vintage car before nodding slowly. He would have been a fool not to accept Destiny’s help. She had proven invaluable in the past, especially when trying to find a needle in a haystack, or a baby in the woods, for that matter.

Roman threw his suitcase in the back of the station wagon along with Peter and Destiny’s camping supplies and got into the backseat of the car. Peter and Destiny followed suit and climbed into the front seat. 

It was misty that morning as they drove out of Hemlock Grove. The manicured lawns in front of the quaint little houses glistened with dew and bells from the chapel rang out in the distance, muffled by the fog. The air was brisk but Peter didn’t feel the cold. All he could feel was the knot of anticipation in his stomach and the burn of Roman’s glare on the back of his head. 

Destiny could probably feel the tension between the boys but she didn’t mention it. Instead, she turned the radio to some soft, melodic music with a baby-voiced female singer. She hummed softly to the song as Roman shifted and scoffed. 

Peter closed his eyes. He was absolutely exhausted. His dreams had been plagued by demons as of late and they never allowed him any rest. Peter drifted off to sleep easily now, lulled gently by the gentle movement of the car and a momentary feeling of security. 

For once, he didn’t dream. 

The car had come to a stop and Peter woke from his nap feeling groggy but somewhat refreshed. They were parked in front of a highway minimart with sun-bleached cigarette adds in the windows and a blinking neon open sign. Destiny’s seat was empty but Roman remained sitting in the back, his forehead resting against the glass, fogging the window with his breath. 

Roman slowly turned his eyes to Peter and Peter could almost hear Roman’s curses in his head. Roman looked cramped in the backseat of Destiny’s station wagon. He was too tall and the ceiling was too low. His legs were bent at an acute angle and he had woven his arms around his middle just to have a place to put them. 

“Do you want to switch seats for a while? There’s probably more room up here,” Peter offered as an olive branch. 

Roman just grunted at Peter, gave him the middle finger and returned his attention to the vast fields of nothing outside his window. 

“Fine, be a fucking dick about it,” Peter snapped. Roman’s contemptuous silence was getting on his last nerve. He released the lever below the seat, sending the backrest slamming into Roman’s knees and crushing him even further. 

Roman snarled and with one unbelievably swift movement, he grabbed Peter by the neck from behind and dragged him into the backseat with one hand. He had Peter on his back was bending over him, half standing with one knee on the seat pushed between Peter’s legs and pinning him down. With one large hand still wrapped all the way around Peter’s neck, he drew close. 

“Don’t fucking mess with me, Rumancek,” he whispered angrily. “I am hungry, I’m stressed, I’m uncomfortable and I’m trapped in this shitty car with two smelly gypsies.”

“Get the fuck off me, Godfrey!” Peter snapped, his face close enough to Roman’s to feel his breath on his skin. 

The sensation sent an electric shockwave through Peter that started in his stomach and spread like fire through him. Roman licked his lips hungrily, his eyes round grey globes. 

“What the hell is going on?” Destiny questioned as she opened car door, tossing a plastic bag of soft drinks, snacks and cigarettes into the front seat. 

Roman released Peter, flinging the car door open behind him and stepping out of the cramped back seat. Peter sat up, rubbing his neck. He was getting really sick of Roman’s proclivity for choking him every time he lost his temper. 

Roman lit a cigarette. He took a long drag and held the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds before releasing it, the plumes of smoke billowing from his nostrils like a fire-breathing dragon. He was still glaring at Peter darkly. 

“Jesus Christ, I leave you two alone for two seconds and you’re at each other’s throats. I don’t know what your issue is, but try not to kill each other for five minutes, okay?” Destiny said.

Peter got out of the back seat and approached Roman, his hands stuffed in his pockets. 

“Keep your hands off me, Godfrey. Touch me again and I’ll tear you apart,” Peter warned, barely keeping back a canine growl. 

Roman’s eyes widened, flashing almost flirtatiously, his lips curling into a smirk. 

“Oh heaven forbid!” he said girlishly, holding his hand to his breast in mock horror. He took another drag from his cigarette and blew it rudely into Peter’s face with a quiet chuckle before smashing the butt beneath his heel and getting back into the car. 

Peter sighed. They had a couple more hours of driving to go, but the idea of being trapped in a small metal box with Roman for more than a minute seemed unbearable. As usual, he couldn’t be sure whether Roman was going to kiss or kill him at any given moment. In fact, Peter wasn’t even sure which of the two he preferred. The next two hours were going to feel like an eternity.


	7. Stay With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Readers,
> 
> I'm going on vacation for a week and will be off hiding in the woods without internet access. So until my return, I leave you with this: the longest chapter thus far. This one gets a bit dirty so please note that I have changed the story's rating. If you're sensitive, avert your eyes (or don't...)
> 
> See ya'll in a week!

The landscape shifted and changed the closer they got to Sproul Forest.  The strip malls, little towns, gas stations and city bus shelters became less frequent and gave way to rolling fields, ramshackle barns and eventually brief stretches of dense, untouched forests.  They were only thirty minutes outside the entrance to the park when a patch of rough road covered in gravel burst the rear tire of the station wagon. 

“Shit!” Destiny shrieked as the car swerved violently, tipping off the road and into a muddy ditch off the side of a highway littered with fast food wrappers and rusty beer cans. 

They all looked at one another, mouths agape.  Roman cursed their bad luck and Destiny’s cheap tires.  He got out of the car to inspect the damage.  The rubber was torn to shreds and patching it was out of the question.  Peter and Destiny rounded the car and Peter crouched down in front of the destroyed tire.  He cringed, running one hand down his face and through his beard. 

“I’m guessing you don’t have a spare,” Peter ventured. 

Destiny just shook her head slowly, her expression apologetic. 

Roman stepped onto the highway, looking in all directions.  The sky was just starting to darken.  It wasn’t late, but the early dusk and the smoky chill in the air were omens of winter.  Roman squinted his eyes, reaching his senses as far as possible but the road was empty and deathly silent. 

“Then let’s start walking,” Peter said with a shrug.

“You’re kidding,” Roman scoffed. 

“Do you have a better suggestion?” Peter retorted.

Roman threw up his hands.  He walked to the car and grabbed his sleek, black suitcase filled with human remains out of the trunk.  He placed it on the ground, extended the handle dramatically and stalked away, dragging the wheeled-suitcase down the empty and shadowed highway. 

This was not going well.  First, Peter brings a chaperone on their rescue mission.  And not just any chaperone, he brought his overprotective cousin with a strong distaste for Upirs.  Then, Peter goes cold on him, acting like a brat and taunting him with empty threats.  And now, they are walking down a deserted road like a band of vagabonds.  Roman was feeling irritated and seriously pent up.  He pitied the next person he encountered, because he was quite sure they would be bleeding from multiple arteries before they said a word. 

Roman felt the vibrations beneath his feet before he saw the bright headlights on the road.  An old pickup truck with peeling orange paint and covered in rust stains materialized from the swirling mist behind them.  Destiny dropped her bag and started jumping up and down, waving her arms.  The truck came to a sputtering stop next to her.  She leaned into the passenger side window, smiling big and twirling her hair.  Roman heard the gruff rumble of a man’s voice from inside the cab, but he couldn’t make out what he was saying.  Destiny was all nods and smiles as she waved Peter and Roman over to the car. 

 “Apparently there is a motel a few miles down the road and he said he’ll take us.  We can call a tow truck from the motel, but we’ll be stuck there tonight” she said.

Peter and Roman nodded, grabbed their bags and threw them in the back of the old truck.  Roman made a move to get into the cab but Destiny shook her head, jerking her thumb toward the back of the pick-up.  Roman was horrified, but climbed gingerly into the flatbed of the truck next to Peter.  Peter didn’t bother to hide his amusement at Roman’s discomfort, laughing out loud and breaking into a wide, charming smile as Roman folded his long limbs around him, trying to avoid any physical contact with the rusty vehicle.  It made Roman’s heart flutter and he smiled back tentatively. 

The truck puttered down the highway noisily for a few miles before coming to a stop in front of a small motel with a buzzing neon VACANCY sign swarming with moths.  Roman jumped easily from the back of the truck and headed toward the well-lit building at the end of the short, one-level complex marked “office.” 

The motel office was small and toasty warm.  An old-fashioned wood stove burned in the corner and the walls were decorated with clumsy needle point images of houses with quaint sayings about home, family and our Lord Jesus Christ.  There was no one behind the desk, but there was a steaming cup of tea sitting on a homemade coaster next to the register. 

Roman tapped the little brass bell on the counter and it tinkled lightly.  There was no response.  He tapped it again, a bit harder this time.  There was still no response.  Roman was getting irritated. He waited patiently for a few moments before proceeding to bash down on the bell repeatedly with the palm of his hand, and then his fist. 

A young girl with sweet blonde curls and huge, sky-blue eyes came running out from a back room just as Roman’s fist slamming down on the bell a final time, crushing it to pieces in a spray of springs and tiny screws. 

She looked horrified for a moment, but Roman flashed her the biggest, most charming smile he could muster and she relaxed.  She looked at Roman with those innocent doe eyes he wanted her instantly.  She was like a sweet little lamb transfixed by the eyes of the jungle cat about to consume her. 

“Well, hello,” Roman said, dropping his voice to a tone like crushed velvet.  “Who left you here all alone after dark?”

The girl blushed prettily and Roman could hear the sound of the blood rushing to her face and thump of her heart.  Roman swore he could feel the daggers from Peter and Destiny’s eyes in his back and it pleased him immensely. 

“My dad went out for a six pack so he’ll be back soon.  But if you and your friends need a room, I can help you with that,” she said. 

“Perfect,” Roman purred.  “Three.  Separate.  I’ll take a king.”

The girl retrieved three keys from drawer and Roman charged it to his credit card.  She kept smiling at Roman, peering at him through her eyelashes seductively.  Roman was halfway through a half-hearted compliment when Peter and Destiny snatched their keys from the counter without a word to Roman and stormed off to their rooms.  He could hear Destiny whispering angrily to Peter.  He thought he heard something about Little Red Riding Hood and a Big Bad Wolf and the irony tickled him. 

“Sorry about my friends,” he explained to the doe-eyed girl.  “It’s been a long day.”

“It’s okay,” she shrugged.  “My name is Emily, by the way.”

Roman truly hadn’t cared enough to ask. 

“Well, _Emily_ ,” he said, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.  “When your dad comes back with that six pack, why don’t you snag a couple and come find me.  I’ll be in room…” he looked at the key fob on the counter. “I’ll be in room six.”

The girl blushed again, playing with the buttons on her cardigan.  She nodded. 

Roman smiled at her and took his key and rolling suitcase of blood and walked out of the office, pausing to light a cigarette.  It was just too easy.  He didn’t have any intentions of hurting the girl.  In fact, at this moment, his needs were far more basic.  He was wound too tight and he feared the tension would cause him to snap.  He couldn’t afford to be this distracted while Nadia’s life lay in the balance.  Emily would provide a perfect remedy. 

Peter was outside his room smoking.  He clutched the cigarette tightly between silver-ringed fingers with those bright eyes glaring at Roman from behind a wall of furrowed brows and a loose, dark hair.  That furious look just about undid Roman and that familiar burning aching feeling rose in his gut and lodged itself firmly in his throat.  He knew that look was going to haunt him. 

He winked at Peter and made a lewd gesture, causing Peter storm angrily into his room, slamming the door behind.  Roman laughed softly as he put out his cigarette on the side of the building, leaving a smear of ash.  He wasn’t sure whether Peter was jealous or just disapproving but he liked to think it was the former. 

Roman placed his precious suitcase in the corner of the room.  The place was clean, at least.  The linens were cheap and scratchy but they appeared free of mysterious stains and smells.  The walls were painted a deep burgundy that clashed horribly with the printed beige curtains.  There was a small black and white TV on the dresser in the corner.  It probably didn’t even have cable. 

Roman removed his coat and tossed his button-down shirt onto the chair in the corner of the room.    He rinsed his face with warm water in the little freestanding sink then examined himself closely in the mirror, pulling at the skin underneath his eyes and the pinching and the shadows in the hollows of his cheeks.  He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it straight back and letting it fall loosely to one side.  He looked pale and bloodless, his skin glowing white against the black of his undershirt. 

Roman sighed and pulled one of the jars from his suitcase.  He poured some of the liquid into one of the paper cups next to sink.  It slopped into the cup and sloshed over the edges, puddling on the countertop like a dead jellyfish.  It was repulsive.  Roman put his lips to the cup and threw back the slimy liquid.  It felt thick and lumpy sliding down his throat and it tasted like the gristle discarded from cheap steaks.  But it satiated Roman briefly. 

Roman lay on his back on the bed.  He turned on the little TV and flipped through the channels as he lit another cigarette, blatantly ignoring the no smoking sign.  He figured Emily would turn up sooner or later and she would provide a brief but wonderful distraction from Roman’s troubles.  She was probably an absolute wild thing in bed, Roman figured.  He smoked his cigarette slowly, inhaling deeply and blowing a series of smoke rings. 

There was a hesitant knock on the door. 

 _Finally_ , Roman thought and went to invite Emily inside.  He hoped she brought beer. 

But it wasn’t Emily. 

“Well, this is unexpected,” Roman said. 

Peter was standing there giving him that haunting look again.  He looked ruffled, his shirt was wrinkled and his hair was messy from running his hands through it too many times.  He just stood there for a few seconds chewing his lip, weighing his options. 

“Yeah,” Peter said.  “I surprise myself sometimes too.”

Peter took a step forward and wrapped his arms around Roman’s neck, kissing him full on the mouth.  Roman let out a surprised gasp and grabbed Peter by the waist, pulling his body against him, feeling the heat and relishing the burn.  This kiss was different from the last.  It had none of the ferocity but was, instead, deep and long and powerful.  Peter’s mouth was commanding against Roman’s, their tongues sliding aginst eachother, teeth lingering over lips and soft breaths against wet mouths. 

Peter ran his hands down Roman’s chest, trailing damp and lingering kisses and licks down his neck.  Roman groaned and tangled his fingers in Peter’s soft, dark hair.  

“You’re not going to go all hot and cold on me again, are you?” Roman asked, gasping as Peter ran hands under his shirt and scratched nails down his chest. 

“Maybe,” Peter murmured into Roman’s ear, running his tongue along the edge and biting his lobe gently. 

“Yeah, okay,” Roman said.  “Fuck it.”

He caught Peter’s mouth with his and kissed him deeply, pushing his tongue between Peter’s lips and pushing him down onto the bed.  He straddled him with one knee along his hip and one pressed gently between his legs.  Roman pulled open Peter’s shirt and ran his lips down his chest, his hands trailing behind his mouth.  Peter’s back arched, leaning into Roman’s touch with a moan.  Peter grabbed a handful of Roman’s hair and dragged his mouth back to his own.  He kissed him hard, pushing his hips against Roman and scraping fingernails down his back. 

Roman was losing himself.  Peter consumed his senses.  He lips tasted smoky and distinctly earthy, like juniper and cloves.  Roman could feel the wiry muscles beneath Peter’s skin flexing against him he pulled Roman hard against him and pulling his undershirt off over his shoulders.  And then skin hit skin and Roman was electric, every cell in his body was afire.  He could feel the pressure of Peter’s erection against his own and it nearly stopped him breathing.  He ran his fingers down Peter’s side to his thighs, snaking his hands between his legs and gripping firmly.  Peter let out a surprised grunt, his hips bucking against Roman’s hand. 

Roman stood abruptly.  He grabbed the waistband of Peter’s jeans and dragged him toward the edge of the bed before yanking them off with a flourish.  He stood up straight, looming over Peter briefly, calculating the other man’s expression.  Peter looked him straight in the eyes, his gaze hungry as he undid the shiny, silver buckle of Roman’s belt and dropped his slacks to his ankles.   The way Peter looked at him made Roman’s heart ache and sent the blood rushing south.  He bent forward and kissed him again slowly.

Roman dropped to his knees, running his hands along the insides of Peter’s thighs before bowing his head to kiss, bite and lick his way up.  He took the tip of Peter in his mouth, swirling his tongue around him and wrapping his long fingers around the shaft, eliciting a growl from Peter.  Peter gripped handfuls of Roman’s hair, pushing his cock deeper into Roman’s mouth. 

Roman ventured a glance at Peter’s face as he slid his tongue up and down the length of him, to discover that Peter returned his stare.  He was watching Roman’s face intently from behind lowered dark, lashes.  It was just _too hot_ and Roman moaned loudly against Peter.  He began touching himself, matching the stroke of his hand to the motions of his mouth, gliding up and down, his lips slick with saliva. 

Roman knew he was getting close as Peter’s hips bucked and ground against his mouth and the moans grew louder, more frequent and increasingly animal.  Peter was so hard in Roman’s mouth that Roman was sure he would explode at any minute.  He steadied Peter’s hips with a firm hand and slowed his pace.  He wanted him to beg for it.  He wanted Destiny, Emily, everyone in the vicinity to hear it.  He had control over Peter just this once, and he was going to make him suffer for trying to leave him behind again, for pretending that this wasn’t what he wanted all along.  Even if Peter decided to go cold on him, Roman would make sure he would never forget this. 

Peter’s hand was resting on the back of Roman’s head, his fingers tangled in his fine, honey-colored hair.  He was hissing through his teeth with every stroke.   Roman could feel the pressure building, the desire burning and tearing its way through him.  One look at Peter and he was sure he would come immediately, but he couldn’t resist.  He was just too beautiful, all dark hair and bright eyes.  Roman moaned, his lips still around Peter’s cock, as he came into his own hand, sticky and hot. 

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” Peter groaned loudly.  With one final buck of his hips, Peter came, pouring himself into Roman’s mouth.  He released his grip on Roman’s hair, dropping his hands to his shoulders, taking deep long breaths through his nose with his eyes closed. 

He opened his eyes as Roman wiped his lips delicately with his fingers.  He reached for one of the folded towels sitting on the dresser and wiped his hands, unable to contain a self-satisfied smirk.  He grabbed a cigarette from his pack. 

Peter ran both hands through his hair a few times before flopping backwards onto the bed. 

“Shee-it,” he said. 

Roman lit the cigarette, took a drag and smiled at Peter.

“Shee-it,” Roman said, exhaling. 

He lay on his back on the bed next to Peter and handed him the cigarette.  They passed it back and forth without speaking until the tabacco was gone and all they were smoking was the filter.  Roman was afraid Peter would leave if he broke the silence, that he would come to his senses and sulk back to his room.  So Roman said nothing.  Many minutes passed and he eventually braved a glance at Peter.  Peter’s chest was rising and falling slowly, his head tipped to one side and hair falling over his closed, sleeping eyes. 

Peter was staying, for now.  And that was good enough. 

 

 

    

 


	8. The Powers That Be

It was just before dawn when Peter woke. The weak morning sunlight leaked between the heavy curtains and roused Peter from a deep and dreamless sleep. He opened his eyes slowly and carefully as he assessed his surroundings and the memories of last night slowly returned to his sleep-drunk brain.

Roman was lying next to him completely naked, tangled in a sheet, his pale features dimly lit by the watery light. His face was peaceful, almost angelic as he slept. And then all the memories came crashing down and Peter felt his cheeks burn red with shame and his stomach tighten with arousal. _What had he done?_

To say things had been tense during the drive North would be an understatement. Peter was hyper aware of every move the other man made, every scathing sideways glance he shot, every flippant gesture and it had put him on edge. He had tried to laugh it all off, to pretend nothing had changed between them, but it was futile.

The hungry, wanton look Roman had given the girl at the motel front desk had irked Peter and sent him spiraling into a fit of parasitic jealousy that burned through his veins and ate away at his insides. Roman's obvious satisfaction at Peter's discomfort only made things worse. Roman was doing it on purpose.

After Roman had retired, Peter had paced his room anxiously trying to think of ways to distract himself while simultaneously craning his ear to the wall to hear Emily’s soft sounds of pleasure (or pain). Peter’s imagination had tortured him mercilessly, forcing images of their night with Miranda into the forefront of his mind. His thoughts were consumed with memories of the soft moans she made as Roman ran long, white fingers down her thighs and across her small breasts. He imagined Emily making those same soft, guttural noises, her body arching into his touch.

Peter couldn’t stand it anymore. He wasn’t exactly sure what he planned to do as he stormed toward Roman’s motel room. He was half sure he planned to punch him square in the nose, but when Roman opened the door with that lazy smile on his face, Peter’s anger ebbed away and was replaced with an aching lust.  

The rest of the nights events flashed through Peter’s mine like a photographic slideshow, vivid and dreamlike with an unrealistic quality. He could still picture that hungry, devilish glint in Roman’s eyes that Peter had seen a thousand times before, but never quite like this, never while Roman had his hands and _oh god, his mouth..._

Peter groaned, the shame and desire battling for dominance. He had to focus. Nadia was out there, he could feel it, and he was going to need all of his wits about him to save her. He owed it to Letha. They both did. He took one last long look at Roman before sliding out of bed, gathering his clothes and slinking back to his room before the full and unforgiving light of day would expose him.  

Back in the safety of his solitary room, Peter turned on the shower and let the hot steam fill the bathroom, blurring his reflection in the mirror. Maybe it was the rapidly approaching full moon that heightened Peter’s senses, but he could still smell Roman on his clothes, his skin and in his hair. That smell of expensive cologne and freshly drawn blood made the memories of last night all too vivid. He was going to have to wash them away.

Peter stepped into the shower. The water was hot enough to burn his skin, leaving it raw and sore, but Peter relished the pain. It helped him focus on the task ahead. He could still see that little cabin in the woods in his mind. Nadia would be there. He knew it. Finding it would be the hard part. He struggled to recall minute details of the dream, but they seemed to fade away all too quickly, like grasping at smoke.

After he showered and dressed, Peter met with Destiny outside her room. She was drinking a herbal tea and staring out at the empty road swirling with mist in the gray morning light.

“Sleep well?” she asked.

Peter just shrugged.

“The tow truck picked up the station wagon last night. The guy said he had a tire that would fit, but the shop is closed for the weekend,” Destiny said. She didn’t look at Peter, she just continued to sip her tea and stare unseeing at the road.

“Shit,” Peter said. “We’re running out of time.”

“How do you know?” she asked, turning to Peter and giving him a concerned look. “How do you even know that she-beast, Olivia, isn’t giving you the run around?”

“Maybe she is,” Peter said with a sigh. “Maybe it’s a trap, but Nadia is out there in the forest somewhere. I can feel it. I’ve seen it in my dreams. I’ve seen her.”

Destiny’s eyebrows knitted together with worry. She reached out to Peter and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Roman’s motel room door swung open and he stepped out looking too perfect. He had nary a hair out of place and his shirt was crisp and starched, the collar of his black jacket was flipped up against his elegant neck. But something in his eyes looked tired, his face was bloodless and drained. He pulled his rolling suitcase behind him and stopped short of Peter and Destiny.

“Let me guess,” Roman said flatly. “No car?”

Destiny shook her head.

“I can’t stay in this shithole another night. The sheets are like burlap and the view is shit,” Roman whined.

“So, what? We walk?” Peter suggested.

“What about that little girl at the front desk?” Destiny asked, turning to Roman. “She seemed to buy your bullshit. Think she’s old enough to drive?”

“Only one way to find out,” Roman said with a shrug.

Peter reluctantly followed Roman toward the motel office. He had a sneaking suspicion Emily would be less than willing to help had she any indication of the previous nights events. But, on the off chance she was hard of hearing, it was worth a try.

Inside the motel office, Emily sat reading a romance novel with a heavily worn paper cover. Her pretty blonde curls fell over her downturned face and her lips moved slightly as she read. Roman leaned on the desk casually and cleared his throat. Emily smiled up at him with complete naivety.  

“Good morning, Emily,” Roman crooned.

“Hi there,” she chirped. “How was your stay?”

“Delightful,” Roman said, glancing sideways at Peter with a smirk that made Peter’s heart leap into his throat and his cheeks burn red. He dropped his set of room keys on the desk. Peter and Destiny followed suit.

Emily leaned in and dropped her voice to a whisper.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come by and…you know. Check in,” she said bashfully, glancing quickly from Peter to Destiny. “My father stayed out very late and someone had to keep an eye on the front desk.”

“What a pity,” Roman sighed. “You know, there is a way you could make it up to me.”

Roman took one of her blonde curls between his fingers and gave her a dark look, bending her will to his with the force of his mind. Emily nodded, her eyes round and glazed.

“You see, our car is still in bad shape and we need to make it up to Sproul State Forest as soon as possible. We’re avid hikers. Do you think you could give us a lift? We’d be very, very grateful,” Roman said. His voice was breathy and he leaned in close to Emily’s face.

Emily nodded, unblinking. Without taking her eyes from Roman, she reached into one of the desk drawers and pulled out a key ring with a Ford truck fob and a jingling clutter of different-sized keys.

“Oh great, another fucking truck. Has this town never heard of a sedan, for Christsake?” he said, rolling his eyes so hard they nearly hit the back of his skull.

Peter, Destiny and a reluctant Roman followed a dazed Emily to a dark blue Ford pickup in the parking lot. Roman placed his rolling suitcase in the bed of the truck with the utmost care. Peter and Destiny tossed their things in on top causing Roman to grimace. Destiny climbed into the front seat without a word.

Roman approached Peter, bringing his face just a bit too close to Peter’s. He could smell the toothpaste and cigarette smoke on Roman’s breath and he looked at Peter with hooded eyes that send a stomach-wrenching flash of lust through him. He licked his lips involuntarily. For a second Peter considered grabbing Roman by the back of the neck and wiping that stupid smirk off his face. Hell, he wanted to bite the buttons off that too-smooth shirt and throw Roman down in the dirt, if only to watch him squirm. But, he couldn’t be thinking like that. What had happened the previous night was a mistake and it couldn’t happen again. Acknowledging the tension between them was bound to have catastrophic repercussions. Two monsters such as they would surely self-destruct. But that only made the draw more appealing and undeniable.

“Dogs sit in the back,” Roman said softly, with a smirk. He ran his fingers lightly across Peter’s stomach, leaving trails of sparks behind on Peter's skin as he walked past and got in the cab of the truck with Destiny and Emily.

Peter growled. The wolf was pacing again, scratching at him beneath his skin. How had Peter lost control of the situation? He had kept Roman at arms length for so long and he had meanwhile kept the upper hand. But ever since that first kiss, no, ever since that dream in the Hemlock Grove cemetery, Peter had felt the shift in power. Roman had grown powerful. He had been feeding and his abilities to manipulate and control had become second nature. And yet, Peter felt stronger, too. He had been changing against the moon consistently for some time now. Granted, he got sick and passed out every time he did it, but the Vargulf never overtook him. And he had been healing so much faster. Minor wounds now closed within seconds and when Roman had nearly ripped his throat out, Peter had felt almost completely well by morning.

The back of the truck was littered with crushed beer cans and shotgun shells and Peter was certain that this was not Emily’s truck. But she turned onto the highway and headed North toward the entrance of Sproul State Forest.

The air smelled woody and green and it made Peter’s skin prickle. The wolf was getting impatient and Peter knew that they were getting closer to Nadia. The wind was cool and crisp and his Peter could see the foggy tendrils of his breath whipping away behind him as the truck sped forward. Peter pushed the hair back to keep it from whipping in his face and closed his eyes, just for a moment.

_The room was dark, at first. Like the strike of a match, the lamps along the merlot walls burst into light, illuminating Roman, who was folded elegantly into a straight-backed armchair smoking a cigarette. He was wearing a sleek dark suit with a black shirt buttoned all the way up the collar. His legs were crossed and his eyes cast downward._

_Peter glanced around the room. It appeared to be some dream-incarnation of the Godfrey mansion dining room. But it was windowless and sinister. Maybe it was the flickering reflections of the flame-colored light that danced off the lamps and onto the surrounding walls, but the room appeared to be breathing, fluctuating and undulating all around him._ This was wrong, _he thought._ This is very wrong.

_Roman continued to smoke as a pool of liquid as thick as oil and as dark as ink pooled beneath him. The puddle grew large enough to encircle the base of Roman’s chair before it began to ripple and shimmer, like a breeze across a still lake. Something pushed against the puddle from below. The blackness resisted as if were made of silken fabric. Three elongated, shapes pulled themselves from the pool, coiling upwards and taking shape. The faces of three snakes shifted on the heads of long, coal-black bodies. And then three became six and six became twelve. They began to curl themselves around Roman’s ankles and up his calves. His eyes remained cast downward, as if he didn’t see the serpents taking hold of him. Or he didn’t care._

_The snakes now covered all of Roman’s lower half but Peter couldn’t move. All he could do was watch. He felt like he was buried up to his neck, the weight of the earth making his limbs useless. When he opened his mouth to shout, he choked, his mouth filling with invisible sand. Peter was unable to summon the wolf from within him. It wasn’t that it wasn’t listening, but it simply wasn’t there._

_Roman lifted his cigarette to his lips and the snakes coiled around his wrists slithered and hovered to encircle his neck. The snakes appeared to be melting and melding together, cloaking Roman in the blackness that absorbed all light and reflected nothing. Before it overtook his face, Roman’s eyes snapped up and he looked directly at Peter. He smiled viciously, hungrily and then the blackness surged upward, consuming his face, shimmering and shifting like velvet._

_The unseen sand was suffocating Peter. It filled his eyes and poured into his mouth until his throat was full of it. He gagged dryly as everything faded to black._

Peter opened his eyes. His cheeks and the tip of his nose burned numbly from the cold. He was sitting upright in the back of the truck, which had come to a stop. Roman was standing next to the truck and looking at Peter.

“We’re here,” Roman said, his look intense. He offered Peter a long, white hand.

Peter hesitated for a moment, and then grabbed Roman’s hand firmly, heaving himself out of the back of the truck.


	9. Cabin in the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I should probably note that Sproul State Forest is a real place. It's in Pennsylvania. And it's pretty. Google that shit.

They drove to Sproul Forest without a word.  Emily piloted the car mindlessly, propelled forward by nothing but the force of Roman’s will and the insistence of his word.  Destiny said nothing, but Roman caught her giving him sidelong glances as he rubbed his temples, trying to rid himself of the imminent headache and the gnawing hunger that was now commonplace.  Roman wanted desperately to look back at Peter, but in a desire to remain aloof, did not. 

Roman had been disappointed when he woke that morning to find himself alone and Peter’s side of the bed cold, long since abandoned.  He must have snuck out some time in the night or early morning.  Although he wasn’t surprised by the behavior, Peter had clearly been struggling with massive bouts of guilt and shame since their relationship had taken its first physical turn, Roman could not deny that he was stung.  And then Peter had the nerve to ignore Roman so completely later that morning and it made his blood boil.  Roman Godfrey was not accustomed to begging for attention, his lovers had always come to him of their own free will, or mostly their own as he was not opposed to some gentle persuasion.  But Peter was different.  He had always been so cautious around Roman, like a skittish dog run stray for too long.  It only made Roman want him more.  It made him feel possessive and put a strain on his self control.  Every time Peter relented and gave up some little piece of himself, Roman took it greedily, a small reward for his persistence and his patience.  And when Peter came to him last night, tousled and bereft, weak from lust, he had never looked lovelier.  The way he had melted beneath Roman’s hands and his mouth made Roman feel powerful and dangerous and victorious.  Roman would do anything to feel that again. 

Eventually the road turned from asphalt to gravel and then came to an abrupt end at a small, empty parking lot framed by trees.  The early morning dew still clung to the leaves of the trees, which burned red, yellow and orange like a flame in the slanted autumn sunlight.  The clouds were thickening to the North, hovering dark and heavy with rain. 

Roman got out of the truck, followed by Destiny.  Peter was sitting in the truck bed with his head hung and his eyes closed, the space between his brows furrowed.  At first Roman thought he might be sleeping, but then his eyes snapped open and settled on Roman, clouded with fear. 

Roman’s first instinct was to comfort him, ask Peter what was wrong, find out what had startled him, but he thought better of it. 

“We’re here.”

He offered his hand to Peter, a gesture that he half expected him to reject.  But Peter took it firmly, the touch sending a shockwave of electricity up Roman’s arm into his shoulder where it tingled deliciously.  A smirk played at the corners of Roman’s lips but Peter had already averted his eyes, discomforted by the contact.  

Roman busied himself with his suitcase, lifting it from the trunk with care and unzipping the front pouch to remove a compact GPS tracking device he had lifted from an unsuspecting programmer at the Godfrey Institute.  He had entered the coordinates of the general location Olivia had marked on the map.  It was a nine mile hike directly into the wild heart of the forest.  And, considering the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, they would be diverging from the marked trails about halfway to their destination. 

Roman had nearly forgotten about Emily, who remained in the truck, staring unblinking ahead of her.  Roman rounded the truck and leaned into her open window.  She turned slowly to look at him.  He took her face between his hands, brushing the curls from her face and leaned in, whispering softly into her ear. 

“Go home now, Emily.  Forget that you were ever here and forget our faces and names.  As far as you know, you spent the morning sitting at your desk reading smutty novels about horny princesses fucking Fabio, or whatever.”

Emily nodded slightly between Roman’s hands before returning her gaze forward and starting the ignition.  Roman could feel Peter and Destiny’s eyes on him as the slung their backpacks over their shoulders.  He returned to his suitcase, grabbing it by the handle and turning to the other two. 

“It’s this way,” he said, gesturing toward a narrow path ahead of them, cut by the tracks of tires.  Peter nodded and Destiny sighed. 

They walked the first several miles in relative silence, Roman directing them from one trail to the next.  He was no outdoorsman, but he preferred to maintain control of the GPS.  The dampness in the air was growing heavier and there was no doubt the rain would be upon them soon.  Roman looked mournfully at his already dusty and scratched leather boots.  They were his most rugged pair, by Roman’s standards, but they had cost a pretty penny and the damage would likely be irreparable by the time the journey was over.  Not to mention the sorry state of his black suitcase, muddied and wobbling over the sticks and rocks that littered the trail.

Roman began to grow anxious.  Destiny was walking ahead of him now and he could hear the blood thrumming through her veins and pumping in her heart from the exertion.  For a moment, Roman fantasized about overtaking her, ripping open her ribcage, the wet crack of her bones and the gurgling of blood in her throat like music to his ears.  He imagined plunging his hands into her warm chest cavity and pulling her heart from the mess, plucking it from the tangle of veins and arteries like a ripe tomato from the vine.  It would beat weakly in his hand for a few seconds before he would plunge his teeth into the fibrous tissue, the hot, iron-rich blood running down his chin and his throat and leaving behind a sticky trail of red. 

The nauseating wave of hunger washed over Roman, causing him to lose his footing and trip over a raised tree root.  He stumbled and braced himself against a nearby tree, schooling his breathing and focusing his thoughts on the rough bark beneath his fingertips and the cool earth at his feet.  But the harder he tried to push the hunger away, the stronger it came back, vengeful and powerful in its hold over Roman.  He needed to feed, and soon.  He had drained half of his food supply that morning before leaving the motel in hopes that it would hold him over until they reached Nadia, but the hunger was so strong now that Pryce’s substitute for human blood was no longer enough to sustain him.

Peter and Destiny had stopped in their tracks and were watching Roman wretch weakly, propped against the trunk of a tree.  They exchanged worried glances and Peter approached Roman, extending a hand as if to comfort him, but thinking better of it and shoving it deep into his pocket. 

“You okay,” Peter asked with a grimace.

“Do I fucking look okay?” Roman snapped.  He took a long, deep breath, drawing the cool, pine-scented air into his lungs to settle his nerves.  “I just need a minute.  I’ll catch up.”

Peter hesitated, but followed Destiny up the path and out of sight.  Roman heaved a sigh of relief.  He would prefer if Peter didn’t see him clutching at Pryce’s jar of synthetic human remains, gulping and choking on the disintegrated muscle tissue of one failed experiment or another.

Roman hastily pulled at the zippers of his suitcase, his fingers numb and fumbling.  Something was wrong, the leather felt wet and sticky to the touch and when Roman finally tore open the suitcase his fears were confirmed.  The glass container had cracked in two; the flesh-colored liquid was seeping through the leather and into the dirt below.  Overcome with a merciless hunger and a burning shame, Roman clutched at the slimy fragments puddled at the bottom of the suitcase.  He sucked them from his cupped hands like cold spaghetti and licked it sumptuously from his fingers, inhaling sharply as the bitter, metallic taste flooded his mouth.  The hunger gnawing at Roman’s stomach subsided slightly and cool relief washed over him, tainted slightly by the feeling of disgust at his desperation. 

He wiped his mouth on the back of hand and dried his hands on the thighs of his slacks.  He rose to his feet, kicking the suitcase to the side with his boot.  He straightened his shoulders and pushed his hair back from his face before walking briskly toward where Peter and Destiny disappeared into the trees. 

He caught up with them quickly and Peter nodded at him in acknowledgement, a silent show of understanding.  But his eyes turned cold and unreadable, flicking down to the smeared blood on the front of Roman’s slacks.   Roman gave him a dark look and Peter turned away again. 

The sky had gotten dark and the air was thick and fragrant with the coming rain.  The breeze felt oddly warm, like breath against skin, but it still made Roman shiver.

“It’s coming,” Destiny said, coming to an abrupt stop.  “The storm.”

Peter glanced up at the slivers of sky showing through the fiery-colored canopy.  “Hope you brought an umbrella in that suitcase, Godfrey.”

“Imagine that, the wolfman afraid of a little rain.  Come on, we have to go this way.  The path won’t take us any farther.”  Roman gestured to the right toward a dark patch of thick-trunked trees. 

The first drop of rain fell directly in the center of Roman’s cheek.  It was fat and warm and splattered across his face and into his eyes.  A few more drops fell heavily onto his shoulders, soaking into the fabric of his jacket.  The forest began to shutter and rattle as the drops came faster, slapping aside the papery autumn leaves and soaking into the dark ground below. 

“Shit.”  Peter pulled his jacket closer around his neck, ineffectively shielding himself against the onslaught of rain before heading in the direction Roman pointed. 

Despite the dense cover of trees, the rain soaked the ground quickly, leaving them slogging through soft, muddy earth.  The soles of Roman’s boots sunk deeper into the dirt with each step.  Destiny was cursing loudly ahead of him and Peter’s head was hung low and his shoulders bunched at his ears in frustration.  Roman pulled the GPS from his pocket only to find it soaking wet, the display blinking sporadically before going completely blank.  Roman clutched the device in his hand tightly, feeling the plastic frame crack and break between his fingers. 

 _Fuck_.  There was no doubt they were lost.  All the trees looked exactly the fucking same and the rain left Roman bleary-eyed and nearly blind.  Ahead of him, Peter slipped, flailing wildly for a moment before regaining his balance.  He spun on Roman, fury burning behind his eyes. 

“Where the fuck are we, Roman?” Peter asked, through gritted teeth. 

Roman tossed the crushed GPS device at Peter’s feet.

Destiny’s eyes were wide and her face looked uncharacteristically frightened.  “What the fuck happened?”     

“It got wet.”  Roman shrugged.

 “Do we have a map?” Peter asked, his voice elevated by both rage and to combat with the din of heavy rain. 

Roman didn’t say anything.  He could feel a sneer pulling at the corner of his lip. 

Peter charged toward him, using the momentum to shove Roman hard in the shoulders, causing him to stumble but not lose his footing. 

“You don’t have a fucking map?” Peter shouted.  “What the hell is wrong with you?  I should have known this wouldn’t work.  Why the fuck are we even here?  Because Olivia said so, since she’s always been _so_ helpful in the past.  For all we know, Letha’s baby is already dead and this is just a trap.  She just wants to control you and wouldn’t mind killing me in the process.”

Rage tore through Roman, gutting him from chest to groin.  Who was Peter to question him now?  He had shared Roman’s desperation after Nadia was taken; he knew Peter wanted her back.  He had loved her in the womb.  And Roman had certainly questioned Olivia’s motives, but had felt right, it felt _true_.  He knew the baby was close, he could feel her. 

“She’s out here, Peter.  I know you can feel her too,” Roman said, struggling to steady his voice.

“What I _feel_ is pissed off!  We’re on a wild goose chase here, Roman.  Why can’t you see that?”

“Fine.  Go home, Peter.” 

Roman turned on his heel, stalking off in an unknown direction, his desire only to put some distance between himself and Peter.  Destiny was leaning with her back against a tree, wet dark hair falling in around her face.  She averted her eyes from the spectacle. 

“Godfrey!” Peter called after Roman.  “Roman, stop!  You’re making a mistake!”

Thunder rumbled in the distance and the sky flashed bright with lightening.  The air around them hummed, altogether too warm and charged with electricity that made the hairs on the back of Roman’s neck stand on end.  He ground his teeth together and balled his hands into fists, tearing at his palms with his fingernails and letting the blood mix pink with the rain water. 

With a strong hand on his shoulder, Peter spun Roman around roughly.  His eyes were filled with a mixture of concern and anger, furrowing his heavy brows.  He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat at the look of unadulterated pain and vehemence that engulfed Roman, twisting his face into an ugly mask. 

“Am, I?  Peter? Am I making a mistake?  Because I’m pretty fucking sure the only mistake I’ve made is thinking you’d stick by me this time,” Roman sneered, looming over Peter.  “What is it this time, Peter?  Are you a coward or do you just not give a shit?”

“Why are you always so determined to run directly at danger?  Do you have some kind of death wish?”

“Not all of us have the luxury of running away from all our problems.”

“Yeah, well not all of are able to pay our way out of our problems.  Or use the Vulcan Mind Meld to trick little girls into doing your bidding or get away with murder,” Peter shouted accusingly.   

“Oh fuck off, Peter.  You were a lot less judgmental when your dick was halfway down my throat,” Roman snorted. 

Destiny’s jaw dropped open, her hand flying to her mouth in disbelief.  Embarrassment and something akin to disgust flashed across Peter’s face.  Roman could see it even through the rain and it made his heart sink painfully, leaving him winded as the ground fell out from under him.  Peter was rejecting him again and made him furious. 

“It was a _mistake_ ,” Peter hissed.

The blood in Roman’s veins was boiling.  That familiar veil fell over his mind, that gauzy, malleable thing that would curl out from the depths of his psyche and out his pupils to wrap around his victim, suffocating their mind beneath his own and holding it fast in a vice grip.  Understanding flashed across Peter’s face and Roman felt him fighting his influence.  Roman wasn’t sure what he was trying to convince Peter of, all he knew was that he wanted to destroy him, to make Peter his. 

“Stop!” Destiny shouted, her voice sounded distant and was nearly drowned out by the crack of thunder.  The storm was much closer now. 

“Fucking stop!  Look!”  Destiny shook Peter by the collar, breaking Roman’s eye contact. 

Peter’s eyes cleared, the shattered blue color betraying him like always.  They were filled with betrayal and hatred.

Destiny pulled at Peter’s jacket again, yanking him around.  She gestured anxiously at something looming in the distance, obscured by the darkness of the storm and the smattering of trees.  Another flash of lightening illuminated the forest around them, revealing a small structure hidden amongst the trees.  It was a small cabin, like the ones hunters would use.  The façade was weathered and beaten by one too many storms and spongy green moss dripped from the roof.  Aside from the brilliant red door, the cabin looked to be more a part of the woods than man made. 

“That’s it,” Peter whispered.  “I saw this place in a dream.”

Peter’s back was to Roman but he shot him a quizzical look.  Peter had dreamed about this place.  He had known it was here the whole time and he still tried to prevent Roman from reaching it.  What had he seen? 

Roman steeled himself and walked directly up to the cabin.  The air stilled the closer he got, his footfalls audible in the soggy leaves below him, as if the rain that fell around him made no sound at all.  The windows at the front of the cabin were blackened by a thick layer of dust.  Roman’s hand hovered over the doorknob as he took one last look back at Destiny and Peter.  Destiny was still clutching Peter’s shirtsleeve anxiously.  Peter’s expression was blank, but he shook his head slowly at Roman, his eyes falling. 

Roman grasped the knob firmly and turned.  The door swung open easily, the dust swirling in its wake and filling Roman’s nostrils and throat, causing him to cough.  The rain pattered quietly on the roof above him, muted by the thick blanket of moss.  A few drops leaked through the ceiling and dropped onto the toe of Roman’s mud-splattered boots.  It was dark and the room was small and empty.  Roman’s footfalls were loud and heavy on the wooden floor.  Roman paced the room until he reached the far corner of the room and his footsteps echoed hollowly.  He crouched down, his eyes adjusting to the darkness.  Below him was a trap door, cut from the wood and adorned with a tarnished metal handle. 

A shadow fell over the doorway, blotting out the weak light.  Roman turned to see Peter standing there.  Roman curled his fingers around the handle, looking purposefully at Peter. 

“Don’t,” Peter said. 

“Then stop me,” Roman said, flinging open the trap door and dropping down through the opening.  He wasn’t afraid because he had nothing left to fear.  His daughter was all he had left and he would find her and if he died trying, so be it. 

Roman’s landed on hardened dirt ground, bending his knees and bracing himself against the impact.  The flicker of candlelight caught his eye, as it danced across the earthen walls and cast shadows across the impossibly vast room.  It was at least three times the size of the cabin and appeared to be centered around three squat stone altars, cobbled together with rough concrete and irregular rocks like those found at the edges of the river.  A fat candle dripped from atop the center altar, a puddle of wax beneath it. 

Roman could smell the blood before he saw it, glittering and black in the darkness smeared across the pale skin of a figure, naked and slumped against the wall.  Roman took a step toward the body, cautiously.  And then he heard the soft, suckling whimper of a child.  Roman stumbled forward, falling to his knees in front of the figure, which turned slowly to look at him.  

Her hair was matted with dried blood and vomit and her pupils were blown wide, the blackness swallowing even the whites of her eyes.  She smelled of death, that sticky, rotten sweetness.  But she was alive.  Miranda was alive.  Blood dripped in slow, thick drops from her nipples, striping her stomach with red and dropping onto the face of the baby resting in her lap.  Nadia’s plump cheeks were red with the fresh blood and her eyes shone blue even in the darkness.

Roman’s heart swelled and the lump in his throat nearly strangling him.  He felt the tears pouring from the corners of his eyes but he didn’t bother to wipe them away.  He reached for Nadia, needing to feel her soft, warm skin and bury his nose in her fine hair to know she was real, to be sure he wasn’t dreaming.  Just before he touched her, Miranda’s hand, lying limp at her side snapped up, grabbing Roman’s wrist.  Her grip was incredibly, unbelievably strong and the delicate bones in Roman’s wrist fractured and crumbled beneath her fingers.  Roman cried out, the pain exploding and sending his brain into shock.  Miranda’s mouth opened wide, dark and cavernous, and she let forth an inhuman howl so high-pitched Roman felt an eardrum rupture with a painful pop, sending a cascade of hot blood down the side of his neck. 

Roman made to restrain Miranda, but his hand was useless and she was too fast, leaping at Roman like an animal, rabid with bloodlust.  She pinned him down into the dirt, her hands pressing down hard into Roman’s shoulders and one of her knees digging into his gut.  Roman pawed at her face blindly, finding the round indents of her eye sockets and pressing down into them with his thumbs.  She let out another wail.  Roman’s right hand was broken and useless, but he felt the eye beneath his left thumb quiver spastically before bursting like a grape and sending thick, hot fluid coursing down Roman’s wrist.  Roman quickly pulled back his hand, the wet, spongy socket releasing his fingers with a nauseating suction.  Miranda continue to wail, but she didn’t release Roman, the remainders of her eye tumbling from bloodied socket to hang by a fiber of the optic nerve as the fluid dripped onto Roman’s face and smeared across his lips. 

Miranda’s hands were gripping Roman’s clavicles tightly, her fingers wrapping around the bones like bicycle handlebars.  She released him with one hand, raising it up and bringing it down on Roman’s face, dragging jagged dirty nails across his cheek and tearing back the flesh.  Roman blinked the blood from his eyes and managed to get a hand around Miranda’s small throat, squeezing her trachea tightly.  Stars danced at the edges of his vision. 

Suddenly the weight was lifted from his chest and he saw Miranda flung backwards in flurry of black fur, torn flesh and snapping, bloodied teeth.  Peter’s snarl was half human and half animal, both a shout and a growl.    

Roman clambered to his knees, crawling towards where Nadia had sat only to find her gone, a towering beast in her place with thick, silvery scales and the boney, leathery wings of a bat folded at its sides.  An electric blue pattern flickered across its armored scales, like the dancing reflection of water across the walls of a swimming pool.  Somewhere in the back of Roman’s mind, the glow reminded him of Shelley. 

The thing opened its mouth in a wicked grin, exposing rows of sharp, pointed teeth like a shark as it stalked toward Roman, claws glinting in the flickering candle light.                                                                                                                                                              


	10. Biting Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned, this chapter is all blood, sex and violence. So, all my favorite things. Not your favorite things? What are you even doing in this fandom?! :)

Peter hesitated in the doorway as he watched Roman drop into the cellar below the cabin floor.  The feeling of foreboding that shrouded the little building prevented him from crossing the threshold and kept him hovering, immobile at the entrance.

Destiny stood ten paces behind him, shifting from foot to foot and chewing on her thumbnail.  The rain continued to fall in sheets, but Destiny made no move to shield herself.  Her eyes were fixed on the red door swung open in front of Peter. 

“Don’t go in there, Peter,” she begged.  “There’s something in there, I can feel it.  I’ve felt it before.  It knows us.”

“What do you mean?” Peter asked.  Despite the parlor tricks and fake tarot readings, Destiny had a true gift.  She had stared into the abyss time and time again, but until now, it had not stared back. 

Destiny just shook her head and wrapped her arms around her chest, clutching herself tightly.  Peter approached Destiny, put his hands on her shoulders, bringing his face close to hers. 

“What is it?” Peter asked.  “Is it the thing that took Nadia?”

“No,” she said, her voice weak and hollow.  “It’s much worse.  So much worse.”

A pained shout echoed out from the cabin.  _Roman._   Peter was already halfway in the door when an inhuman and excruciatingly shrill wail hit his ears.  He pitched forward to his knees, clutching his ears to block out the agonizing sound. 

Peter heard Destiny’s cries of protest somewhere behind him, but it was already too late.  The beast was swelling beneath Peter’s skin, huffing and snarling and tearing at his insides.  The muscles in Peter’s back tightened like rubber bands and spasmed wildly, crushing his ribcage as they contracted.  His joints ached and then exploded with white hot pain as sharp claws pierced through his knuckles, leaving severed finger tips dangling uselessly from the torn sinuous tendons. 

His eyes burned hot like coals, bulging with the pressure and sending blood cascading down his face in crimson streams. Peter gagged as the beast rose in his throat, shredding his esophagus as it rose.  He could feel a pinching pain in his mouth, beneath his gums, and gnashed his teeth together as hard as he could.  The teeth cracked and crumbled in his mouth before his lips were pulled tight around the emerging snout, its fangs snapping and ripping away Peter’s tongue.  The flesh at the corners of his mouth stretched until it tore apart in jagged strips like wet paper. 

Peter fell forward on to all fours, tearing at the meaty flesh at his shoulder blades with his claws and flinging it from him in soft, wet handfuls.  His spine arched and curved as he convulsed, nauseating wet cracks echoing in his ears.  The bones pressed out against the skin on Peter’s back, causing sharp needling pains that left him whimpering.  Just as Peter was begging for the flesh to give way and end the pain, the change stopped.  The canine jaws gnashed at the air through Peter’s torn face, his eyes and upper skull intact and worn on the crown of his head like a rubber Halloween mask.  But the wolf came no further.  It was lodged inside Peter’s human body, trapped and angry.  

Peter felt the flutter of panic rise in his chest.  He had pushed it too far.  He had changed against the moon one too many times and he’d lost control of it.  His mind was frenzied, struggling between animal instincts and human intuition. 

The deafening wail reached a crescendo and Peter lunged toward the trap door and into the cavern beneath the floor, his body crying out in agony with every movement.  The room was almost completely dark as the one remaining candle flickered violently in a wind he couldn’t feel.  The wolf inhaled the thick, sweet odor of fear and the metallic scent of blood and Peter let it lead his eyes to the corner of the room, where a mangled, bloodied creature was straddling Roman.  Roman had the thing around the neck, but it was poised to strike and Peter’s instincts took over. 

He sprang at the thing pinning Roman with a snarl that hurled from Peter’s lungs, but fell from the curled lips of the wolf, sounding both anguished and furious.  He crashed into the soft body, sending it flying backwards a few feet and landing on its back with a sickening crack.  It remained unmoving, a crumpled heap of flesh spattered with blood and dirt. 

Something shifted in the dark.  At first, Peter thought his eyes deceived him, that the shimmer in the dark was caused by the pain that coursed through every part of him and sent stars dancing across his vision.  But then the smell hit him.  It was a smell so filthy he could taste it on his tongue.  It bloomed and clouded the air with the pungent scent of rotting flesh tinged with the putrid sweetness of infection.  He could feel the wolf’s hackles rising and prickling the skin at the back of Peter’s neck and deepening the tears in the flesh on his back as the animal inside tensed and flexed its muscles for a fight. 

The creature stepped from the shadows on two cloven hooves, its leathery wings twitching and stretching before folding down its back.  The body was that of a man but covered in scales instead of skin that appeared dull at first then shimmered dimly with a sort of bioluminescence.  The head was smooth and hairless with a heavy brow that hung over its eyes, which were coal black and set deep into the sockets like pools of oil. 

The creature locked eyes on Roman and reached for him.  The wolf reacted immediately and lunged at the creature, sinking its teeth into the outstretched arm that threatened to tear Roman limb from limb.  The scaly skin was dry and papery but burst beneath the wolf’s needle-sharp teeth, gushing forth with a thick, black liquid that burned like liquor and tasted of gasoline.  The thing roared, exposing its cavernous mouth, which was lined with multiple rows of sharp pointy teeth like a shark.  Peter felt the noise in his bones; it rattled through him and made the wolf thrash beneath his skin, tearing it into bloodied ribbons down his arms and across his chest.  But he did not release the grip of his jaw. 

The thing raised its arm, lifting Peter by the flesh clenched between the wolf’s jaws.  It lashed its arm like a whip, sending Peter crashing to the ground.  Although every movement felt like the bone crushing slam of a sledgehammer, Peter was able to get quickly to all four feet, lunging again at the creature’s ankles and snapping his jaws at the bony joints.  It stumbled slightly, but remained generally unharmed. 

In the back of his mind, Peter registered Roman getting to his feet.  His movements were slow and unhurried at first, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists at his sides.  His eyes burned with fire as the candle flame reflected in his blackened and expanding pupils.  When he lurched forward, it was with inhuman speed and his figure blurred with the movement.  His jaw stretched open wide, too wide.  His teeth turned from blunt to jagged and sharp as he clamped his long fingers around the back of the creature’s head, one of his wrists twisted at a ghastly angle.  He tore at its throat, sending a spray of arterial blood in a wide radius around them.  Its roar now gurgled wetly as it clawed desperately at the Upir fastened around his throat. 

The creature caught Peter’s stomach in a violent kick.  The wind rushed out his lungs, as he hurtled back, the creature’s torn flesh still clenched between his teeth.  His body crashed into one of the jagged stone altars, and stars danced in front of Peter’s eyes as pain shot down his side.  The wolf lay still beneath Peter’s skin, and with the last of his strength he felt his flesh begin to stitch back together roughly, his bones snapping back into place.  As the darkness closed around his consciousness, Peter watched a through a vignette the violent spray of blood, both red and black, as it poured around him like rain. 

****

Peter’s consciousness ebbed back to him slowly, bubbling blurrily around the edges.  The ground around him felt sticky and wet and he was vaguely aware of a figure bending over him. 

“No, no, _no_ ,” Roman was muttering, his fingers pulling at shirt button and sleeves, worrying over the slowly seeping wounds in Peter’s side, his shoulder and across his face. 

Peter opened his bleary eyes a sliver.  Roman’s face was etched with panic and his mouth, chin and neck were smeared with dark black.  He wiped at it absentmindedly with his elbow, sniffling slightly, his eyes rimmed with red. 

Peter stirred slightly, shifting over a rock jabbing into his already sore spine.  He blinked once; his eyes were crusted mostly shut and his skin tight with dried blood.  Relief smoothed across Roman’s expression.  His hands went to Peter’s face as he lowered his own, pressing their foreheads together as he sucked in a deep, shuddering breath.  Peter lifted one heavy arm from the ground, placing a steadying hand on the back of Roman’s neck.  They sat that way for a few moments, just breathing, all quarrels momentarily forgotten. 

“Peter?”  Destiny dropped gingerly from the trap door and looked around the room; her eyes squinting against the darkness.  “Oh my god.”  The carnage that materialized in the dark in front of Destiny must have been impressive. 

Worry began to tug at the fringes of Peter’s mind.  He was alive, but why?  What had happened to the beast?   As if sensing his unease, Roman straightened.  He took Peter’s hand and helped him to a sitting position, leaning against a wall. 

Something whimpered in one of the shadowed corners.  The fear reignited in Peter’s chest and he made to get to his feet, but Roman held up his hand.  He stood gracefully and walked toward the noise.  The weak light of the lone candle flickered and Peter caught a brief glimpse of the thing huddled and weeping in the corner.  There was a spark of recognition in his mind.

“Is that…?” Peter stuttered.  “Miranda?”

Her face was barely recognizable.  It was swollen and dirty and she held one hand over her eye, blood seeping from between her fingers.  But the uncovered eye was the same clear blue-grey he remembered.  Roman crouched in front of her and she recoiled with a sob.  She looked at him for a moment and her pained expression went slack and she uncurled herself, revealing a small wriggling pile of rough cloth beneath her, inside of which was a baby with eyes so bright and blue Peter could see them despite the darkness. 

Roman’s posture crumpled and he gathered the child in his arms, pressing his cheek to her soft hair.  She looked so small next to him, his height only exaggerated by the way he had folded himself around her.  Both their angelic faces were smeared with red and black and the carnage was spread in a circle around them, like a halo of blood and flesh. 

Peter’s heart fluttered in his chest and the relief overwhelmed him.  The baby was alive and seemingly well.  Miranda had miraculously survived, although she was considerably worse for the wear.  The body of the creature they had encountered in the cellar was gone, for now, although Peter wasn’t exactly sure what had happened between the moment his vision went dark and opening his eyes to see Roman kneeling over him, hands and face painted red and oil black. 

Eventually, Destiny gathered herself.  She removed her long jacket and draped it around Miranda’s shaking shoulders.  She helped Peter to his feet with a small, relieved smile.  Peter stretched his limbs, feeling them pop and crack beautifully.  He stretched too far, and doubled over at the sharp stinging of the wound in his side, which gushed forth, hot and brilliant crimson.  He winced and clutched his side, but stayed standing. 

“We need to get out of here.  I don’t know what happened, but something came crashing through the windows upstairs like a bat out of hell.  Whatever it was, it might come back,” Destiny said.

Peter nodded solemnly.  “Help me with her,” he said, gesturing to Miranda. 

Roman got to his feet, the baby still in his arms.  He looked at Miranda and Peter thought for a moment he might protest, might insist they leave her behind to suffer and die.  But he did not.  Instead, he waited for them at the entrance and helped Peter and Destiny lift her to the surface, followed by Nadia. 

Peter took one last look at the cabin as they walked away, Miranda hanging limply between Destiny and Peter, held up only by the strength of their arms.  They hadn’t bothered to close the red door behind them when they left.  The windows were shattered and the forest floor was littered with glass fragments and a spattering of black liquid that sparkled like jewels on the wet earth.  The place looked much less menacing now that the rain had stopped and the sky had lightened to a dove gray.  The roof seemed to sag slightly, the house broken beneath the weight of whatever evil had festered there. 

Peter turned away.   They located the path easily, making Peter think that maybe something had been hiding beneath the storm, expecting their arrival and anticipating a fight.  Nothing was implausible anymore. 

Shoulders and feet aching, they eventually reached the parking lot where Emily had left them early that morning.  It was early evening now and the sky was beginning to darken to the color of charcoal, a heavy, insulating blanket of clouds obscuring the sky. 

“There has got to be a ranger’s station somewhere around here,” Destiny said, wiping beads of sweat from her brow.  She and Peter dropped Miranda in a barely conscious heap against a tree.  She slid from their arms limply, eyes fluttering. 

“No need,” Roman said flatly, his eyes set on the road ahead of them.  There was a hollowness to his voice that unsettled Peter.  There was something about the straightness of his back, the hardness in his eyes that was distinctly unlike him.  It was too composed, too cold, even for Roman. 

As if he willed it so, a sleek black car turned around the corner, its approach nearly silent except for the sticky sound of tires on wet asphalt.  The car came to a stop directly in front of them, the headlights too bright in the lingering daylight.  The engine clicked off, the door swung open and one long, smooth leg and high-heeled foot extended from the driver’s side.  Olivia stepped from the car, straightening to her full towering height.  She wore a structured white dress.  Her neck and wrist were weighted with silver and gold chains and bangles while her long, elegant fingers dripped and flashed with diamonds.  She was a deadly sort of beautiful, the type that that left a lingering dread in your stomach though you’re unable to look away. 

“Darling, you did it,” she said, her voice smooth and sweet, her eyes soft against Roman’s sneer. 

“Why am I not surprised to see you here, Mother?”  Roman shifted Nadia on his hip, holding her closely as she squirmed against his grip. 

Olivia stepped forward, reaching for Nadia and Roman, but pulled her hand back and clutched it to her breast, a smile playing on her lips.  “I knew you would bring her back to us.  She belongs at home with her family.”

“Don’t be so cryptic, Mother,” Roman spat.  “What circle of fucking hell was that?  Did you know what we were walking into?” 

“This isn’t the time for explanations, Roman,” Olivia cooed.  “Your friends are bleeding out.  Perhaps we can postpone this conversation?”

Roman glanced back at Peter, who was clutching at his side, trying to stifle the blood that was still pumping steadily from the gash there.  He was clinging to the last threads of his consciousness, his body broken from the half-change and the subsequent brutalities.  Never one to admit his weakness, Peter attempted to straighten himself, but the stinging in his side made him double over again.

“Fine.  Take Destiny to her car and Miranda and Peter to the hospital.  Then, we talk,” Roman conceded. 

“No hospital,” Peter hissed from between gritted teeth.  “I just need to rest for a little bit.”

Roman nodded.  Destiny helped Miranda limp to the backseat of the jet black sedan.  Peter climbed in next to them, leaning against Destiny for strength. 

Olivia pulled a dainty handkerchief from her purse and dangled it limp-wristed in front of Peter from her place in the driver’s seat.  “Try not to bleed on the leather, please.”

Peter snatched it from her long, manicured fingers and pressed it to his wound, sucking a breath in sharply through his teeth as the hot pain shot through him.  The white linen square was soaked with red in seconds. 

Roman sat in the passenger seat with Nadia in his lap, a watchful eye on Olivia’s profile as she turned the car around.  With one hand in Destiny’s reassuring grip, Peter relinquished consciousness.  The blackness swallowed him up like quicksand. 

****

Peter woke with a start.  His eyes snapped open and he scrambled to a seated position immediately.  He scanned the room quickly.  He was in one of the spacious guest rooms in Roman’s house.  He could tell by the austere modernist furniture and the complete lack of warmth or color in the décor.  One wall of the room was made up entirely of windows, revealing a clear night sky, which was painted with the deep, mysterious purple of the last hours before dawn.  Stars flickered between wisps of pale clouds.  The moon hung low on the horizon, scattering the weak ivory light across the trees behind the house.  It would be full soon enough. 

Peter threw back the thin blankets and assessed the damage.  He was dressed only in his boxers; his body was peppered with yellowing bruises and thin, nearly-healed scratches.  He brought his hands to his face, which was tender but not swollen.  He expected his right eye would be darkened with a lingering bruise and his jaw clicked and ached when he moved it.  There was a square of white gauze taped to his side where the jagged rocks of the underground altar had sliced him.  It was stained with dried, brown blood.  Peter pulled back the bandage to see a jagged but shiny, pink scar and chucked the bandage into the trashcan at the corner of the room. 

He got to his feet stretching, glancing around him for his clothes, but found none.  He padded out into the dark hallway.  Beams of dim yellow light from a lit room down the hallway cast long shadows on the walls.  He approached the source of the light, which came from a Roman’s room through the door left slightly ajar.  The door swung open easily under Peter’s hand. 

Roman was sitting on the edge of his bed, bent forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his head hanging between slumped shoulders.  He wore a dark, ribbed undershirt and his feet were bare beneath the hems of his soft, black slacks.  He twirled a tumbler of amber liquid between his fingers.  The dim flickering of the gas fireplace cast dark shadows across his face.  He didn’t acknowledge Peter’s presence hovering in the doorway, but Peter was sure he knew he was there.  A silent question hung in the air but Roman remained silent some time before speaking.

“Destiny made it home safe,” he said, his voice low and soft.  “She wanted to take you home with her, but we decided it was best not to move you.”

“And Miranda?”

He snorted quietly.  “Godfrey Institute, under the ever-watchful care of Dr. Johann Pryce,” he said, his words edged with venom.  “I’m sure he’ll fashion her with some fancy new pirate-themed eyewear.”

“Nadia?”

Roman sighed now, an authentic smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.  “Asleep down the hall.  Safe.”

“What about Olivia?  What did she say?  What happened?”

Roman drank deeply from his glass, draining half the liquid in one gulp.  His lips curled slightly at the liquor’s burn.  “She still owes me an explanation.  But for now, I just wanted to get the baby home.  Wanted you to rest.  I’m surprised to see you standing.  You left half your blood in the backseat of Olivia’s Mercedes.”  He smirked at this, probably enjoying the thought of Olivia scrubbing the blood from the leather, or explaining the stains to the cleaners. 

“What happened to you…” Roman faltered.  “You were in fucking pieces.  I thought you’d left me for good this time.” 

“I thought I told you, I don’t break that easily,” Peter muttered, leaning against the doorframe. 

Something flickered across Roman’s expression.  Even though he didn’t mention it, Peter knew what he was thinking.  The weight of the words he had spoken before, the night he spent on Roman’s porch, the night they first crossed that physical barrier, were not lost on him. 

Roman stood without looking at Peter and crossed the room to the fireplace.  Resting his forearms against the mantel he stared into the flames, his drink still between motionless fingers. 

“You don’t have to stay,” he said.  “I get it if it’s too much, all this shit.”

Peter chuckled softly.  “You telling me to run, Godfrey?”

“I’m giving you an out,” Roman said, straightening and turning to Peter, his face a solemn mask.  “Go now and save yourself the fucking bloodshed, because something tells me this isn’t over.”

“There’s always something lurking in the dark with you people, huh?” Peter sighed. 

He tried to make light of Roman’s warning, but he felt the truth in the words.  Ever since the day he arrived in Hemlock Grove, something was out to get him.  Be it the law, the Jesus freaks, the things that went bump in the night, they could all be traced directly back to the Godfreys.  So long as he remained with Roman, he would be targeted.  Peter was the sword at Roman Godfrey’s side, the knight, the first line of defense and Peter had risked everything time and time again to keep him standing.  But for what?  For friendship?  For loyalty?  For some misplaced sense of guilt and duty?  What did he have to gain by staying?

As if sensing his train of thought, Roman stiffened.  “I could make you stay, you know,” he said darkly.  “But I won’t.  I’ll let you leave, this time.”

“A clean break?  No mindfucking?  You drive a hard bargain,” Peter scoffed. 

Had he been a smarter man, he might have turned and left at that moment.  He might have taken Destiny and loaded all their possessions in the car and drove without stopping until his vision went blurry.  He might have left Hemlock Grove and all its fucked up, gates of hell bullshit behind and started fresh somewhere else.  He might have found himself a wife with a wild heart and honey-colored hair and spent the rest of his life in the driver’s seat of a car, his troubles falling away beneath the ever-turning tires.  But he wouldn’t.  He couldn’t just walk away from _this._

Roman drained the last of the liquor from his glass, tossing it with no small amount of force into the fire, shattering the crystal against the marble with a crash that sounded like bells, breaking the heavy silence. 

“Make your choice.”

“I’m still standing here, aren’t I?” Peter said softly, but with defiance. 

Roman pushed away from the fireplace and went to stand in front of Peter.  He reached over Peter’s shoulder, holding the door and forcing Peter through the threshold and into the room as Roman pushed the door shut, the lock clicking into place. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Roman said, his voice low in Peter’s ear as he leaned over him, his hand still pressed against the door behind Peter. 

Peter inhaled, his head swimming the way it always did when they got too close.  Roman’s breath against his ear was cool and earthy with the heady, cloying scent of top-shelf scotch.  The blood was starting to thrum through Peter’s veins and he hoped Roman couldn’t hear the way his heart was thundering in his chest, but of course, he could. 

“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” Peter said, his voice barely a rumble. 

Roman dropped to his knees, placing his hands on Peter’s hips, long fingers curling around to the small of his back.  His lips ghosted across Peter’s stomach, his breath leaving trails of goosebumps on his skin.  He hesitated over the fresh scar at Peter’s side before dragging his tongue, hot and wet across the raised, pink skin.  A strangled little moan escaped from Peter’s lips before he could stifle it and Roman’s fingers tightened around his hips.  Peter threaded fingers through Roman’s hair; it was cool, damp and recently washed, smelling of bergamot and sandalwood.  Roman lifted his eyes to meet Peter’s, his pupils blown wide and black with desire, his lips parted and wet from his tongue.

Peter could hardly stand the sight of Roman with that expression that was both lustful and devout, on his knees in front of Peter, kneeling before him like an altar. Some distant memory chewed away at the back of his mind, reminding him that he had thought this was a bad idea a few hours ago.  He had promised himself he wouldn’t cross this line again.  But he was already too far gone.  He supposed, deep down, he always knew they’d end up here. 

Peter untangled his fingers from Roman’s hair, and ran his thumb along Roman’s jawline, his nail scratching the skin lightly and leaving behind pale red line.  He pressed his thumb against the curve of Roman’s lower lip, admiring.  Roman slid the tip of his tongue across Peter’s finger, taking it into his mouth and sucking provocatively.  Roman’s expression turned quickly from pious to wicked as he swirled his tongue around Peter’s finger and his breath caught in his chest. 

He grabbed Roman firmly by the shoulders, pulling him from his knees and against his mouth, lips hungry and tongue probing.  Peter ran his fingers down Roman’s chest and pushed his hands under his shirt, feeling the smooth, firm skin that ran along his sternum.  Roman took the hint and yanked the shirt over his head and pressed himself against Peter, rolling his hips and running his fingers along the curve of Peter’s neck. 

The weak but ever-present spark that always flickered in Peter’s stomach around Roman burst into flame, sending the fire burning through his core.  The wolf stirred in Peter for the first time since he woke.  Peter growled.  He placed a hand against Roman’s chest and pushed hard, sending Roman stumbling backwards until the edge of the bed caught him behind the knees.  He flopped backwards onto the dark bedspread, a surprised grin spreading across his face. 

Peter all but pounced.  He straddled Roman’s knees and hastily undid the button and zipper of his pants and pushing them to his ankles and exposing tight black boxer briefs that strained over his thickening cock.  Roman’s soft laugh at Peter’s eagerness was stifled beneath a moan as Peter ran his hand across the bulge in Roman’s shorts.  He cupped in hand around him, the sweet pressure deepening the moan that tumbled from Roman’s lips. 

Peter bent forward and flicked his tongue against Roman’s parted lips before capturing them in another kiss.  Peter stroked Roman over his shorts for a moment, just to torture him a little, before pushing them down and wrapping his fingers around the shaft.  He stroked Roman up and down, listening as Roman’s breaths grew ragged and his tongue moved languidly against Peter’s, the pleasure pacifying him.  Peter ground his hips against Roman’s cock in his hand and elicited a positively gut-wrenching groan. 

Roman’s hands were everywhere.  They dragged tracks down Peter’s back, fisted through his hair, and pressed fingerprints into soft places.  The fire smoldered beneath Peter’s skin and left him feeling animal and out of control.  He didn’t even feel like reining it in. 

He grabbed Roman’s chin firmly in one hand, the other still working between his legs.  Peter physically turned Roman’s face to his, his breath coming in little pants. 

“I’m going to fuck you,” Peter growled.  It wasn’t a question and it certainly wasn’t a request. 

A smirk played at the corners of Roman’s lips.  “Top drawer,” he said, eyes flicking to the nightstand beside the bed. 

Still straddling Roman, Peter reached over and yanked the drawer open.  To say Roman was prepared would be an understatement.  The drawer was stuffed with probably fifty condoms, lubricant, a variety of sex toys with questionable purposes, a pair of handcuffs and a box of fresh razor blades. 

“Jesus Christ,” Peter said, tossing the lubricant and a couple condoms on the bed and then pulling a razor blade from the box and twirling it between his fingers. 

“Give me that,” Roman said, the smirk momentarily gone from his lips.  He grabbed at the blade in Peter’s hand but Peter easily evaded his grasp. 

“You’re kidding,” Peter said, his tone skeptical. 

“I said give it to me,” Roman said, his voice hard as he took another grab at the blade in Peter’s hand. 

Peter leaned forward, pressing his chest against Roman’s, holding the blade as far from Roman’s reach as he could.  “Oh, I will.  But I’ve lost enough blood today, thank you.”

Roman’s long arm easily reached Peter and he pulled the razor gently from Peter’s hand so as not to cut him.  “It’s not for you.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up so far they nearly disappeared into his hairline.  Roman wrapped his fingers carefully around the razor blade, hiding it in his fist.  Peter just shook his head.  What the fuck was he getting himself into? 

Before he could even consider having second thoughts, Roman pressed his lips against Peter’s.  Everything melted away and once again, all Peter could feel was the heat unfurling at the pit of his stomach.  Roman pushed Peter’s shorts over his hips, running his fingers along the backs of Peter’s thighs as he did it.  And then there was nothing left between them and the feel of skin on skin made Peter dizzy.  Roman nipped at his lips and chin, practically vibrating underneath him, groaning at the heat of the friction. 

Peter sat back and slicked his fingers with lubricant.  He ran his other hand up Roman’s thigh and across his hips, adoringly.  Peter didn’t often sleep with men, but he had to admit that Roman was sight, long limbs and skin so fair it looked bloodless.  The cut of his face was that strange beauty from Renaissance paintings, like his features had been pieced together based on their autonomous beauty and not because they fit together.  It was a constant reminder of his otherness, his inhumanity. 

“Ever done this before?” Peter asked, teasing. 

Roman sat up slightly, leaning on one of his elbows, his eyebrow arching.  “What do you think?”

Peter took that as a yes.  He pressed one finger inside Roman, who hissed through his teeth and then groaned as Peter crooked his finger.  He inserted a second and Roman gasped.  His expression teetered between pleasure and pain as Peter worked his fingers in and out, stretching him open.  The agony and angst of it excited him and Peter pushed in a third, causing Roman to let out a strangled groan, gripping fistfuls of the sheets as his hips rocked against Peter’s hand. 

Roman had gripped the razor blade still hidden in his hand too tightly and blood began trickling between his fingers and down his wrist.  He turned his head and licked the blood from wrist languorously.  He dragged his tongue against each drop as it slipped down the lily-white skin.  Peter was mesmerized.  It was so creepy but so unbelievably pornographic and Peter was beginning to ache and throb with need. 

He pulled his fingers away and tore the condom wrapper open with his teeth and pushed the rubber over himself hurriedly, slicking it with lube.  Roman was watching him hungrily, the corner of his lip smeared with blood.  Peter shuddered with both arousal and a measure of uneasiness and positioned himself between Roman’s legs. 

He pushed in his gently at first, torturing himself with the tightness and teasing little moans and gasps from Roman.  Roman wrapped himself around Peter and rocked against him, his hips encouraging.  Peter kept his pace agonizingly slow, pulling himself almost completely out before pressing slowly back in until their bodies were flush.  Peter enjoyed watching Roman squirm beneath him, his hair mussed and his eyes dark and lustful. 

“Peter, _goddamnit,”_ Roman moaned, lifting his hips to crush them against Peter, grinding against him.

Peter picked up the speed, rolling his hips against Roman’s desperate thrusts.  Roman ran his hands across Peter’s chest, his face and clung to fistfuls of his hair, smearing him with swatches of the wet blood that still trickled from his palm.  He kissed and licked the trails of red from Peter’s skin, humming and moaning with each thrust. 

Peter pulled out completely and Roman growled angrily at the loss. 

“Get up and turn over,” he said huskily.

Roman’s eyes narrowed, but he smiled and flipped over, pushing himself to his knees and braced himself against the headboard.  “Going to fuck me like a _dog_ , Peter?”

Peter growled and grabbed Roman by the hips and slammed into him without warning.  Roman laughed between groans and pushed against Peter.  Peter wrapped an arm around Roman’s waist and took his erection in his hand again and began stroking him in time with each thrust.  Roman curled forward slightly from the pleasure of it. 

Peter was hovering on the edge, his body was burning and humming and the tightness in his stomach had spread to his chest.  He ran his fingernails across Roman’s chest hard, eliciting a gasp as the beads of blood formed along the scratches.  Roman licked the blood from Peter’s fingers while Peter bit at Roman’s neck, feeling him grow harder with each gasp of pain.   

With a shudder, a groan and a string of expletives, Roman came, the hot fluid coating Peter’s fingers.  Roman tightened around Peter as his orgasm racked his body.  Peter’s vision went white as he came into Roman, rocking his hips gently as he did. 

Peter removed his arm from around Roman’s waist and pulled himself out.  He tied off the condom and threw it at the trashcan.  Peter pulled a tissue from the box conveniently located on the nightstand and wiped the mess and some of the blood from his hand.  Roman was still bent forward, sitting on his knees, white knuckled hands gripping the headboard.  He took a deep breath through his nose and tossed back his head, running fingers through his hair and pushing it straight back.  He turned to Peter and gave him a wicked grin. 

Roman stood collected his pants from the floor.  He didn’t put them on.  Instead he pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket and crossed the room to the sliding door that led to the porch and stepped outside.  Although it wasn’t winter yet, it couldn’t be more than fifty degrees outside.  Roman was casually leaning against the railing outside.  His naked body glowed bluish in the moonlight.  He pulled two cigarettes from the pack and put one in his mouth and lit it.  The smoke slipped from between his lips in a cloud before he sucked it back into his mouth.  He waved the other cigarette at Peter through the glass. 

Peter fumbled for something to cover himself up and settled on Roman’s discarded pants on the floor and a cashmere sweater that hung off the back of a chair.  The pants were about a mile too long and although the sweater felt like it was made of kittens, it was definitely not his style.  But he wanted that cigarette and the clothes smelled too good. 

He padded out onto the patio and accepted the cigarette, which Roman lit for him behind a cupped hand.  Peter inhaled the smoke and held it until his lungs burned. 

“Aren’t you cold?  It’s fucking freezing out here,” Peter said, the smoke tumbling from his mouth with the words

“Nope.” 

Peter shuffled his feet, which were almost completely covered by the extra foot of fabric from the pants.  He pushed his hair back from his eyes and flicked at the cigarette between his fingers.  He couldn’t bring himself to meet Roman’s eyes.  The post-sex shame was starting to settle in his chest.  He was itching to get away but forced himself to stay put, at least for the moment. 

“You’re not going to get all weird on me now, are you?” Roman asked, crossing his arms across his naked chest. 

“What?” Peter asked, for no particular reason other than to avoid the question. 

“I said, you’re not going to get all fucking weird on me, are you?  Jesus Christ, Peter.  Don’t act like such a virgin.  _That_ was clearly not your first time.” 

“Fuck you,” Peter grumbled, but realized his error too late.  Roman pressed himself against him and Peter could feel the chill of his skin through his clothes. 

“Please?” Roman pouted.

Peter rolled his eyes but smiled in spite of himself.  The whole thing was so fucked up, really.  Knowingly crawling into bed with something as unpredictable as an Upir wasn’t just poor common sense, it was completely masochistic.  But, _god_ it felt good.    

Roman tossed his cigarette over the balcony and took Peter’s from between his lips and tossed it as well.  Peter watched it fall mournfully until Roman took Peter by the hand and pulled him with little resistance back into the house where the fire was warm but the bed was warmer. 

 

 


	11. Silver Line

The sky was already lightening by the time Roman drifted to sleep.  The stars dimmed and gave way to the slanted, yellow light of the autumn sun as it peeked between the clouds.  His sleep was the heavy, sated kind that only followed long stretches of unrest.  The kind that leaves the sleeper dangling on the precipice of that groggy lucidity where the dream world and reality meet.  His dreams, usually painted red and occupied by frightening, shifting shadows, were filled with soft fur, warm sunshine and the smell of pine needles and wet earth.    

When Roman finally woke, the sun was high in the sky.  Awareness returned to him slowly as he opened sleep-heavy lids and squinted against the afternoon light.  He was on his back and the sheets were tangled around him, half hanging off the bed.  The blanket was nowhere to be seen, probably chucked in a corner somewhere out of the way, he didn't remember.  Peter’s arm was slung across Roman’s chest, his face turned towards him, still sleeping.  Honestly, he looked a mess.  Tousled hair fell over his eyes, barely concealing the yellowing bruises around the right eye socket and the nearly-healed scratch across his cheek, all rude reminders of the battle they had fought the previous day.  There were downy feathers in his hair, scattered across his back, stuck to his lip…in fact, there were feathers fucking everywhere and Roman’s pillow was missing.  He didn’t recall who had torn the thing to pieces with teeth or nails, but it didn’t really matter.  He considered it a small sacrifice.

Roman plucked the feather from Peter's lip and sent it floating into the air with a small puff of his breath.  Peter stirred slightly, dark lashes fluttering as he opened his eyes.  He dragged his arm off Roman's chest and wiped his hand across his face with a groan. 

Roman turned his gaze to the ceiling, watching the feather float back down to rest between them.  He almost didn't dare look at Peter, for fear Peter might plummet back down into that cycle of guilt that had sent him scurrying from Roman's bed the last time. 

"What time is it?" Peter mumbled into his pillow. 

Roman turned to his nightstand and grabbed the digital alarm clock sitting there, lifting it to his face and peeling two rather sticky condom wrappers from the face that obscured his view of the time. 

"Almost one."

"Shee-it."  Peter groaned again, throwing his arm back across Roman's chest, pulling him closer. 

Roman tried to stifle his growing grin lest it seem too eager, but failed.  He pushed up onto his elbows and rolled over, placing a forearm on each side of Peter’s shoulders.  He ran fingers through Peter’s dark hair and across the stubble on his cheeks, exploring his face with his fingertips to commit the moment to the eternity of his memory.  His chest felt tight, the pure, unadulterated joy threatening to choke him.               

It wasn’t just the sex.  Not that it wasn’t the best, most mind-blowing sex he’d ever had, because it was.  Just the thought of it nearly strangled a groan from him.   But as Roman racked his brain, he couldn’t remember ever waking up with anyone beside him.  He had made a precedent to make sure all sexual partners exit the building immediately following the act.  He couldn’t relax so long as they lingered, judging him now that the lust that blinded them had passed.  Sometimes they had wanted more from him, fantasies of fine dinners at fancy restaurants and long drives along the coast in his fast car.  Others were disgusted by him, or frightened.  They had seen through his carefully constructed masks and glimpsed the ugliness that dwelled beneath.  So Roman would send them packing the moment he finished, his lust momentarily sated, so he wouldn’t have to see the judgment in their eyes. 

But Roman had hid nothing, and Peter had stayed.  Peter had watched, unflinching, as Roman had lapped the blood from self-inflicted wounds.  Roman had allowed himself to be dominated, controlled and completely fucked.  He had given Peter a chance to reject him, no, he had asked him to.  And he had stayed.  He had fallen asleep with his head on Roman’s shoulder and an arm around his waist.  

He hoped Peter would stay forever.  He hoped he could wake up this way every day and that Peter would eventually discover that he needed Roman as much as Roman needed him.  He hoped that Peter would be his and his alone.  But Roman cut this thought short.  It sounded obsessive and needy, even in his own mind. 

“Um, you’re staring,” Peter said.  He was looking back at Roman but his gaze was shifty, squirming under Roman’s searching stare. 

Roman cleared his throat and dropped his eyes, fixing them somewhere on Peter’s throat.  “Yeah.  Sorry.” 

“You’re a real creepy guy sometimes, Godfrey,” Peter snorted.  He ducked under Roman’s arm and sat up, swinging his feet over the side of the bed and raking his hands down his face and through his hair.  “Got coffee?”

“French press.  In the kitchen.”

“French press?  What, is that some kind of sex position?” Peter mumbled through a yawn. 

Roman snickered.  God, Peter was flirting with him and it made his heart flutter and the blood run south.  “It could be.  But I thought you wanted coffee.”

“Yeah, and a shower.”

“No kidding.  You smell like a wet dog,” Roman teased. 

Peter sniffed, looking over his shoulder and giving Roman a half smile before standing and walking towards the master bath. 

Roman was beyond tempted to follow him, but decided against it.  He would have to tread lightly and exercise restraint to keep Peter from running.  If Roman knew anything about his friend, it was that he feared closeness, dependence and entrapment more than anything. 

Peter disappeared into the bathroom and Roman heard the shower turn on.  He sighed and got out of bed and went to the dresser, pulling out a pair of dark jeans and a t-shirt before he crossed the hall to Nadia’s room.  He had the keypad on the security locks on her door replaced at no small cost.  He entered the first door, allowing it to click shut behind him. 

Nadia’s nanny sat in a straight-backed chair reading from a large book bound in leather with moldering pages, a single candle burning on the table next to her.  She looked out of place in the modern home, her clothing too puritanical, her pale hair pulled back too tight.  Roman held no fondness for the woman, but she had agreed to stay despite the chaos and despite her fear of Nadia.  She had been Roman’s nanny when he was a child and he remembered her as strict and austere.  She had scolded him mercilessly and laughed cruelly at his mistakes.  Roman would have dismissed her if she was not so desperately needed.  Nadia was safe with her for now and Roman was in no position to be looking for new help. 

Roman nodded at the nanny, a gesture she returned, her lips tight and her eyes sharp. 

Nadia was lying on her back in the crib, wiggling in her onesie and cooing and gurgling.  Roman lifted her up and held her close to his chest, pressing his cheek to hers.  She pawed at him affectionately in the way that babies do and Roman held her closer.  He hadn’t believed he could feel such love for anything, for anyone. The love was all consuming and undeniable.   She was the most beautiful and precious thing he had ever seen and he would give his life a thousand times to save hers.  He would exact merciless revenge on the thing that had taken her and the thing that held her captive in the dark cellar beneath the cabin in the woods.  He needed to talk to Olivia.  He had to find out what she knew. 

Roman held Nadia tightly to him for a few more moments before replacing her in her crib and exiting the room.  The nanny made as if to say something, but he let the door slam shut behind him before she could speak.  He didn’t care to hear her judgments or her grievances. 

He went to the kitchen and started the electric kettle.  He measured a few scoops of coffee grounds into the French press and leaned against the counter, waiting for the water to heat.  He let his mind wander.  He thought about Peter in the shower, dark curls stuck to his face in wet tendrils, eyes shut against the stream of water.  The fantasy progressed from there and became significantly dirtier.  Roman imagined Peter touching himself, soft gasps echoing against the marble walls of the shower.  Roman felt himself twitch underneath his pants and couldn’t help but press himself against the kitchen counter, the pressure sending the heat uncoiling in his stomach. 

He must have closed his eyes at some point, because when he opened them, Peter was standing in front of him with a towel hanging low on his waist and his arms crossed over his chest, eyebrow raised.  He shook his head at Roman slowly, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. 

Roman averted his eyes and returned his attention to making coffee.  He poured the hot water over the fragrant grounds, waited a few moments and then pressed slowly down on the tamp, the grounds swirling through the darkening water.  He poured it into two small cups with matching saucers and pushed it across the counter to Peter. 

“Voila.  French press,” Roman exclaimed with a mock grand gesture. 

“And here I was thinking coffee came from a can,” Peter said, taking the small cup in his hand and drinking from it delicately, pinky up.  “Mm, exquisite.” 

Roman rolled his eyes, but smiled anyway. 

“So, you haven’t seen my clothes have you?  They seem to be,” Peter arched an eyebrow, “missing.” 

Roman smirked and gestured with a hand for Peter to follow. 

Peter had lost a significant amount of blood after the events in Sproul Forest.  Roman had dragged him inside, red droplets trailing on the carpet behind him.  Peter’s shirt was absolutely drenched with blood, some dried and browning and even more the deep blackberry color that continued to pump from the wound at his side.  The thick, coppery scent had filled Roman’s nostrils and made his vision blur and his movements stutter.  But Peter hardly had anything left in him to spare, so Roman controlled his urges and dragged Peter’s unconscious body to the bathroom. 

Roman was exhausted from the stress and the level of discipline it took to even be in the same room as Peter, soaked in his own blood.  Roman felt nausea rise in his throat and had released Peter’s body, sending him sprawling onto the white tile floor, the red smearing across the porcelain.  Roman had choked back the bile and knelt at Peter’s side, peeling the sodden clothes from his body, trying to be gentle around the still bleeding wounds.  He had wiped the dried blood from his skin with his softest white Egyptian cotton towels, staining them pink.  He bandaged Peter’s wounds and put him in the guest bedroom, where he had sat at his side for the better part of two hours, just watching him breathe, constantly fearing that each stuttering inhale might be Peter’s last. 

Eventually he had gone and showered, rinsing Peter’s blood from his own skin before kissing Nadia goodnight.  He instructed the nanny to do the impossible, and clean the blood from Peter’s clothes immediately.  Before leaving them in the laundry room, Roman had sucked at the dried and flaking stains on Peter’s shirt, his eyes fluttering and heart thundering in his chest. 

As expected, Roman found Peter’s freshly cleaned clothes folded with the other laundry on top of the table in the laundry room.  Peter reached for the stack, but Roman pushed it out of Peter’s reach.  Peter glowered at him attractively, but Roman just pushed the clothes further away.

Peter smelled like Roman’s shampoo, woody and citrusy, and it was intoxicating.  And Roman was hungry.  He could feel it scratching at his throat and boiling beneath his skin.  It made him reckless.  Roman was confident Peter could see it in his eyes because he hesitated briefly before pushing up against him, grinding his hips against Roman.  Roman’s breath hitched in his throat and he released his grip on Peter’s clothes, instead winding his arms around Peter’s waist, his lips at Peter’s ear. 

Peter darted out of Roman’s embrace and snatched the bundle of clothing off the table.

“Hah!” he exclaimed, holding his pants triumphantly over his head. 

Roman snarled and stalked toward Peter.  A tiny spark of fear flickered behind Peter’s blue eyes, but it only excited Roman more.  The hunger curled and knotted in his stomach.  Peter backed up against the wall, bracing himself against it like a cornered animal.  Roman lashed out, ripping the towel from Peter’s waist with a sharp snap. 

“Hah.” Roman said, dangling the towel between them. 

And then they were kissing, if you could call it that.  It was probably closer to devouring, all teeth and tongues.  Peter had Roman pinned against a wall, fingernails clawing at his chest and scalp.  Roman returned his fervor, pressing his hips against Peter’s naked erection while licking and biting his way down his neck, leaving imprints of his teeth on Peter’s flesh.  Roman could feel Peter’s blood burn hot beneath his skin and Roman could barely breathe from the glorious smell of it.  He wanted to tear at Peter’s throat and taste his blood while fucking him on top of all the clean laundry, staining it permanently with Peter’s blood.  He wondered if Peter would stop him, if he _could_ stop him. 

Someone cleared their throat in the doorway.  Roman’s fingers were still tangled in Peter’s hair, his mouth at his throat when he noticed the nanny standing in the doorway, holding a basket filled with laundry and looking particularly disapproving. 

“What the fuck do you want,” Roman said, his voice low and dangerous. 

Peter turned slightly and when he realized they weren’t alone, leapt backwards.  Cursing loudly and grabbing at the laundry stacked on the table to cover himself. 

“Pardon me, Mr. Godfrey,” the woman said unapologetically. 

“What is it with people’s timing in this house?  Is there some kind of cock-blocking phone tree?  Do you get a call to come interrupt whenever my dick gets hard?” Roman snarled, tossing the jeans Peter had dropped over to him, which he caught, at the cost of dropping whatever coverage he had managed.

“The child is getting hungry, sir,” she said, straightening her back and drawing herself up to her full height.  Roman towered over her anyway.

“So, feed her.”

“Mr. Godfrey,” the woman looked affronted.  “The child does not drink _formula_.”

Peter gave Roman a horrified look.  Of course Roman Godfrey’s daughter wouldn’t drink formula like a normal baby.  Roman was going to have to see Pryce right away.  He was going to have to talk to Miranda. 

“Jesus fuck, alright.  I’ll deal with it.   _Thank you_ ,” he said, his voice edged with venom. 

She left the room, dropping the laundry basket at the door.  Roman turned to Peter, who had somehow gotten his pants on and zipped and was burning crimson red from his chest to his face.  He carded his fingers through his hair nervously.   

“I better go,” Peter said, avoiding Roman’s eyes and focusing on collecting his clothing from where he had dropped it to the floor. 

Roman sneered and adjusted himself in his pants.  _God damn it._   Roman found Peter’s shirt on the ground in front of him and held it out to him.  Peter reached for it hesitantly, probably expecting Roman to snatch it away from him again. 

“Go ahead, Charlie Brown, I won’t pull it away.”  

Peter dressed himself while Roman watched.  He tried to come up with a reason to make Peter stay, but came up short.  Roman would have to go to the Godfrey Institute alone.  He would have to face Olivia without Peter by his side. 

“Stop pouting,” Peter said, looking at Roman out of the corner of his eye while adjusting his jacket over his shoulders. 

“I’m not.  This is just what my face looks like,” Roman said dryly, pouting even more. 

Peter snorted and walked out of the room to retrieve his boots and coat from the foyer.  Roman sulked behind him.  He yanked his coat off the hook and checked the pocket for his keys.  Peter looked at him questioningly.

“Well, you need a ride, don’t you?” Roman said, twirling the jingling key ring between his fingers. 

“I can just call Destiny.  Don’t worry about it,” Peter said, eyes downcast.  

 _Oh here we fucking go again_.  Annoyance and anger tore through Roman and he crushed his keys in a white knuckled fist.  Peter was pulling away.  Roman could feel him recoiling; feel him clawing for an escape.  He withdrew every time Roman was sure he had wormed his way into Peter’s heart, or at least his pants. 

“Get in the fucking car, Rumancek.”

Peter obeyed, albeit reluctantly and walked through the door Roman held open.  He settled himself stiffly into the passenger seat and Roman pulled out onto the damp and quiet road.  The late afternoon sunlight stung his eyes and the hunger left him feeling fuzzy and nauseous. 

Peter gave him a few sideways glances as they drove, but he didn’t speak.  Roman chain smoked for the whole drive, his only intake and exhale of breath clouded with smoke.  He turned on the radio in attempt to drown out the sound of Peter’s blood thrumming through his veins, but it didn’t help.  The steady vibration wasn’t something he could hear though his ears, it sung through his brain waves, inside his heavily beating heart.  The hunger had come on quickly and violently, compounded by the ache that remained neglected between his legs. 

When they arrived outside Destiny’s place, Roman didn’t bother to turn off the car.  He just waited for Peter to get out, leaving him to his walk of shame. 

Peter cleared his throat nervously, his hand hovering over the door release.  “Um, I’ll talk to you later?” 

“Yeah, fine.”  Roman kept his eyes forward.  “Talk to you later.”

“Jesus Christ,” Peter mumbled and got out of the car.  Roman watched him shuffle up the stairs to the doorway in his peripheral.  Feigning aloofness was agony.  In fact, he was sure he was doing a terrible job of it.  He couldn’t have been more obviously crushed when Peter told him he wanted to go home.  His rage at even the hint of rejection was so clearly bubbling just beneath the surface that Peter would have to be blind not to see it.  Peter was rarely fooled by Roman and this inescapable transparency angered him and left him feeling vulnerable. 

Roman allowed himself one last glance after Peter, who was standing at the doorway.  He gave Roman an awkward wave before Roman sped away. 

He headed toward Godfrey Mansion. 

****

Peter closed the door quietly behind him and slumped against the door frame.  He pressed his fingers against his eyes until he saw stars.  _Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck._

His mistakes were so glaringly obvious.  Roman’s moods were changing faster than the tides.  He was constantly teetering on the edge between rage filled violence and unadulterated sweetness.  In fact, it was the gentleness that was so disarming, so unpredictable.  The irrational bouts of anger were not out of character for Roman, as annoying as they were.  But he kept giving Peter these looks.  He had seen flashes of them before, particularly when they had exchanged friendly touches or Peter had complimented him in some way.  It was like he glowed.  Not the way Shelley did, like a nightlight in a dark room, but in a way that made light shine behind his eyes and wiped the smirk from his lips.  It was a disarming look that always left Peter a little dazed and red in the face. 

But Roman was unstable.  He was not going to take fucking all night lightly.  And truthfully, Peter couldn’t either.  He had broken Roman’s trust once and getting it back hadn’t been easy.  If he did it again, there would be no second chances.  He would lose the only friend he’d ever had and the only person who had ever _truly_ known him.  God, it all sounded so dramatic in his head. 

“Oh my god, Peter,” Destiny was standing in front of him.  She pressed her fingertips to her lips and closed her eyes in a sort of prayer before reaching for him.  “You’re alive.  And you look _so_ guilty.  But also alive, which is all that matters.”

She hugged Peter tightly to her and he held her back, the tension falling from his shoulders at her familiar and soothing touch.  Destiny dragged Peter into the kitchen by the hand and he trailed after her with little resistance.  She placed a joint between his lips and lit it.  Peter inhaled automatically. 

“You took quite a beating.  You must be sore,” Destiny said, worry creasing her brow. 

Peter snorted, sending smoke puffing out his nostrils.  “Yeah, pretty sore.”  He smiled in spite of himself passing the joint to his cousin between two fingers. 

Destiny gave him a funny look, but took a deep drag off the joint, holding the smoke in her lungs until it squeaked out in little choking coughs before she released it with a huff. 

“I didn’t want to leave you there, with him, you know.  I wanted to take you home with me but there was just so much blood and every time we tried to move you, you just bled more, like a goddamn blood geyser”  She clasped her hands around Peter’s writs.  “I hope you don’t hate me.  I didn’t know what to do.  I fucking hate myself for it.” 

Peter pulled his wrists from her prying fingers and placed his hands on her shoulders, steadying her reassuringly.  “It’s okay.  I’m okay.”

“That was some fucked up shit that went down out there, Peter.”

Peter sighed.  “Yeah.  It was.” 

He took another hit off the joint, the paper crackling quietly as it burned.  It made Peter feel warm and swimmy, halos forming around the kitchen lights.  It soothed his ravaged nerves.  He placed the joint in an ashtray and watched the thin trail of smoke curl up toward the ceiling from the still smoldering cherry. 

Destiny looked at him, expectant.  “So, what now?”

Peter was confused at first until he saw Destiny’s bags still packed and sitting in the corner.  There were piles of clean laundry, both hers and Peter’s, in stacks around the room and she had pulled a variety of snacks from the cupboard and fridge and had loaded them into a cooler, which sat next to two six packs of beer.  She wanted to leave. 

“Destiny, I can’t,” Peter stuttered. 

“Peter, it’s over.  You got Letha’s baby back.  She is safe to grow up to be a proper monster with the Godfreys for a family.  You’ve done everything you needed to do.  Why the hell do you still want to stay?”  Destiny searched Peter’s face for a moment.  Peter must have gotten that guilty look again because her expression hardened. 

“You didn’t,” she said flatly. 

Peter took a long, deep breath and fixed his eyes somewhere over Destiny’s right shoulder.  Lying to her was impossible.  He didn’t even have to open his mouth before she knew the truth. 

Destiny smashed Peter’s face between her thumb and forefinger, drawing her nose close to his and forcing him to look her in the eyes.  She spoke in a harsh whisper.  “Peter Rumancek you fucking idiot.”  Her voice began to escalate.  “You stupid, horny little bastard.  What the hell were you thinking?  What _is it_ with you and this family?  What is this magic power they hold over you?”  Her voice had gone shrill with panic. 

“I can’t explain it!  It’s just…something.” Peter mumbled.  He felt sick with guilt.  He never meant to put Destiny’s life in danger.  He had never meant to drag her into this mess between him and Roman Godfrey.  He would not allow her to be the collateral damage when this volatile relationship went up in flames. 

“Just _something?_   Real articulate, Peter.  I’m going to need something better than that.  At least _try_ and prove to me that you’re not completely insane?” 

Peter just shook his head.  He wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t completely insane. 

“Honey, I know it’s hard to be who we are.  It can be lonely.  But this thing you’re doing, it’s dangerous.  I wouldn’t be doing right by you if I didn’t try and stop it.  I mean, c’mon.  There are plenty of pretty, pouty blondes out there that aren’t named Godfrey and don’t inherently want to destroy you.  Please, Peter.  Be rational.” 

Peter tried not to hear the condescension in her voice, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth.  He recoiled when she reached for him and he saw the hurt in her eyes. 

“You know what it is?” Peter started.  “You know why I can’t stay away?  Why I keep going back to him even though I know it’s a risk?  Because he fucking sees me.  Yeah, Roman is unstable and definitely dangerous.  But he knows who I am, what I am.  Sometimes, I just get tired of running and hiding.”

“Oh, Peter” Destiny said, her voice full of pity.  Peter couldn’t blame her.  It sounded pathetic.  And it was only a half truth, watered down like weak tea.

There was more to it, a sharper edge, but Peter didn’t dare try to explain why he felt drawn to Roman like a magnet.  How his ears buzzed and his mind went fuzzy with static every time they got close.  He didn’t want to tell her about the fire that consumed him when Roman touched him or the reckless abandon with which they fucked.  Peter hadn’t even considered exercising that kind of brutality with anyone else.  And with Roman, it was just the tip of the iceberg.  They were the same.  Two monsters trapped in human skin, pretending to be something less dangerous than they were. 

“He’s in love with you, you know.” 

Peter shook his head.  He didn’t want to hear it.  He wished he could shove the words back into her mouth so he didn’t have to listen to them echoing in his ears. 

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you, the way he lights up whenever you joke with him, or even just stand near him.  He thinks you hung the moon, Peter.” 

Peter had had enough of the scolding and walked away from Destiny toward the spare room he now called his own.  Roman wasn’t in love with him.  Peter was still fairly certain he wasn’t capable of it.  Love didn’t govern the lives of the Godfreys the way it did everyone else.  Their motivations lay elsewhere, with power, blood and lust.  Peter was all those things to Roman. 

And he could live with that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I brought back the scary Germanic nanny. Did she die in the show? I don't remember. Also, does she have a name?


	12. The Angry Itch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my dear readers. Are you still out there? Did you think I abandoned you? I’m ever so sorry. What you are about to read is the third (or is it the fourth?) incarnation of this chapter. I have written, deleted and rewritten this chapter too many times. Tens of thousands of words later, I’m just going to give it to you. 
> 
> Fuck it. 
> 
> Accept my most humble apologies for the delay. I’ve already got the next chapter half done, so rest assured the wait will be brief and it will be chock full of all my favorite things (Smut! Gore! Oceans of blood!). And if you’re still reading and enjoying this, let me know! It’s nice to know I’m not just throwing words into the void (not that it would stop me).

The house of Roman’s childhood loomed before him, shadowed somehow, even in the clear, bright daylight.  The property remained untouched by age.  The façade never showed a sign of weathering, the walkway was always clear of moss and debris the landscaping revealed an obsessive attention to detail.    Olivia had that sort effect on her possessions.  Everything she considered her own would be smoothed of wrinkles, always crisp, pale and a reflection of her timeless elegance.  She had imposed her image upon Roman the way she did the interiors of her stately home and the expensive clothing in her closet. 

Before he could lose his nerve or his confidence, Roman approached the door.  It swung open before him, his finger still hovering over the doorbell he had yet to ring.   Olivia smiled at him warmly, although Roman was fairly certain that expression took years of practice in front of a mirror. 

“Roman,” she purred as he stepped back and waved Roman inside.  The foyer smelled overly sweet thanks to a monstrous vase of white lilies swelling from a grand vase arranged on the living room end table.  The warm afternoon sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, but never quite managed to warm the house’s interior, which was opulent and staged like a Victorian dollhouse. 

Roman said nothing and shuffled past Olivia, his eyes on his shoes.  He supposed he looked rather like Peter with that posture, but he couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye, lest his anger overtake him too soon.  Roman’s utter distain for his mother seethed from every pore in his flesh, but he needed her to talk.  He was seriously tempted to just torture her until she squealed, but Roman rationalized that it would only serve to ease his desire for violence, as gratifying as that sounded.  Olivia responded to persuasion better anyway.  Unfortunately, the increased agitation Roman attributed to Pryce’s incomplete neutralizing treatments only shortened his already hot temper.  He would have to exercise some of that willpower he so often neglected. 

Olivia arranged herself elegantly on a settee in the living room, a pillar of linen and white silk.  She retrieved a bottle of French Bordeaux from the coffee table and sloshed the remainder of the wine into the empty glass sitting on a stack of newspapers.  Olivia shook the final crimson drops from the bottle indelicately before returning the bottle to the table with a small sigh. 

 “Have a seat, darling.”  Olivia gestured to an overstuffed armchair just slightly too close to her for Roman’s comfort. 

 "I'll stand."  He relished the rare opportunity to loom over his mother, who usually overtook him with her considerable height and indomitable ability for condescension.  He crossed his arms over his chest, impenetrable and straight-backed, and trained his eyes on Olivia.   

Olivia smiled and slugged her wine with no small amount of zeal.  Roman opened his mouth to form some scathing remark about his mother's alcohol dependence, but choked on his words when he caught sight of the headline on the newspaper Olivia had used as a coaster.   

_Hemlock Grove resident, Mara Appel, 22, was found dead in the bathroom of the underground nightclub known as_ The Escape _.  Appel was discovered at 1:35am in the club’s restroom with severe lacerations to the throat.  The county medical examiner has determined the cause of death to be blood loss due to the wound.  Toxicology report suggests Appel had consumed a significant quantity of controlled substances and police originally attributed the crime to drug-related gang violence.  However, due to a recent rash of violent attacks of a similar nature on female sex workers and members of the homeless community in the surrounding area, police suspect the crimes may be related.  The Hemlock Grove sheriff is hesitant to attribute these crimes to a serial killer, but warns citizens to remain vigilant and exercise caution when travelling alone or at night._

"Ah yes, I left that there for you.  You know, most mothers enjoy seeing their children written about in the local publications.  Athletic triumphs, academic endeavors, prom king or queen, that sort of drivel.  But of course, all that’s ever written about my children are sloppy killings and uncredited murder sprees," she sighed, curling one long manicured finger around a lock of glossy, dark hair.  "You really must learn to be less predictable, Roman dear." 

"What makes you think this was me?" Roman asked, willing his voice to remain steady.  He tossed the paper back onto the table, where it skidded across the surface and fluttered to the floor.     

Olivia raised one arched brow, her look pitying.   

“Delinquents, prostitutes, the  _homeless_ ," she scoffed.  "It has your particular brand of desperation and self-loathing all over it." 

Roman snorted.  "I’d rather be desperate and self-loathing than a lonely, jealous bitch with no one left alive to care that you’re still breathing.” 

Olivia's smile faltered for the briefest moment before she regained her cool composure.  "Impudence is such an unattractive quality, Roman.  No matter, I'll have Johann clean up your little mess.  Goodness knows, he is, in part, to blame.  Experimenting on my children like lab rats to further his own futile attempts at notoriety.”  Olivia tilted her head to one side, narrowed eyes raking over her son.  She licked her lips slowly.  “You don’t look well, darling.  Have you been…eating?” 

“I’m fine.”

Olivia hummed.  “You don’t look fine.”  She reached for Roman, her long arm easily spanning the distance between them.  Cool, soothing fingers grazed Roman’s fevered cheek and he struggled against the urge to lean into the comforting touch.  “It pains you, doesn’t it?  The hunger.  I can’t say I don’t sympathize.  It is an exquisite agony, like drowning and dying of thirst all at once.  But you can’t say you weren’t warned.  If I am not mistaken, I believe Johann explained the consequences of his ‘treatments’ if they were interrupted.  But, I suppose you were never a very good listener.  Always running off without a thought to the consequences.   Throwing your heart into this or that only to have it all blow up in that lovely face of yours.” 

“I didn’t come here to listen to you wax poetic about my shortcomings.  I assure you, I’m fucking aware.  I want to tell me what you know about the baby and about that thing in the woods.  I’m assuming you knew exactly what we’d run into.  Trying to kill me again, mother?”

“Kill you?”  Olivia let out a trill of laughter that echoed through the house like a bell.  “You are _my_ son, Roman.  It would take far more than that to kill you.  No, I knew you would succeed and bring our girl back to us.”

“ _Mine_.  Nadia belongs to me,” Roman hissed.  “Come anywhere near her and you will find your head swiftly detached from your fucking neck.” 

“Your loyalty is quite endearing, Roman.  Certainly not a trait you inherited from me,” Olivia sighed and smoothed her hands down her thighs before retrieving her wine glass from the table and draining it in one long swallow.  She placed the empty glass back on table and stared at it wistfully, a smile once again playing at the corner of her lips, her eyes glazed slightly from the drink and memory.

Roman’s rage flared white hot and Olivia’s silence was oxygen against its smoldering flame.  He gripped the table that sat between them with one hand and flung it to the across the room, where it crashed against a wall with a dull, unsatisfying thud, the empty wine bottle and glass cracking beneath the weight of the sturdy wood.  The vase of lilies shattered against the floor. 

“ _What do you know_?  If you don’t tell me, I swear to god – ”  Roman roared, but Olivia remained unflinching. 

“I can’t say I don’t understand your protective instincts, Roman.  The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, as they say. ”

Roman sucked in a deep breath through his nose.  The heady scent of the bruised lilies scattered beneath the wrecked coffee table were causing his brain to throb painfully against his skull.  He ran fingers through his hair repeatedly as he paced the length of the room.  He struggled to maintain his balance.  The anger only fueled the hunger than burned low and molten at his very core.  He needed to remain calm but he couldn’t focus.  His thoughts were hazy and his tongue felt thick in his mouth.

“She’s different, isn’t she?  Your daughter?”  Olivia asked, her head cocked to one side.

Roman shot her an appraising glance, pausing mid-pace. 

“You were such a beautiful baby, Roman, just like her.  I loved you fiercely from the moment I saw you.  You were the one I was waiting for. My heir.  My legacy.”  Her eyes flashed dangerously. 

“Don’t pretend to be sentimental.  We both know _love_ isn’t in your vernacular,” Roman hissed, his dry throat clicking loudly as he swallowed, causing Olivia’s eyes to narrow knowingly.

“I loved you in my own way.”  She smiled.  “Such a petulant child, you’ve fought me every step of the way.  But you have such potential, my darling.  All it took was a bit of guidance and look what you’ve become!”  Her face was lit with pride.  But the he flicker of triumph he saw reflected in her eyes made Roman’s stomach churn.  She could sense his weakness and he couldn’t let her manipulate him.  

“What exactly are you referring to?  The fact that you used your fucked up mind control to make me – ” he faltered, the words catching in his sticky throat.  “To force me to hurt Letha.  I loved her, you know.  She was the only one who treated me like person, like I wasn’t just fucked beyond repair.  Which I have you to thank for, by the way.” 

“I know you loved her, Roman.  That’s why I gave her to you.”

Roman groaned, a suppressed memory of his beautiful cousin’s frightened face flashing across his mind. 

“And now you throw your affections away on that gypsy fleabag.  You know, you can do so much better?  Really, darling.  It won’t last.  He cannot love you back.”

“Don’t fucking talk about Peter,” Roman growled through gritted teeth. 

“The Rumanceks are valuable allies.  Even I understand that.  It is the only reason I allowed your _friendship_ to continue.  But unfortunately, you cannot keep him,” Olivia said with a sigh, averting her eyes.  “We don’t get that privilege.  You can make him stay, for a time.  But eventually, he will leave you.  He has left you before.  Didn’t even say goodbye, did he?”

“He came back,” Roman said, hoping his response sounded more confident than he felt. 

Olivia gave him a withering look.  “When he goes, I will be here for you and the little one.  You’ll see, darling.  Family is the only thing you can count on.”

“Experience proves otherwise.  And you won’t be anywhere near Nadia.”

“You should realize how lucky you really are, Roman, to have a daughter like yours.  She is truly gifted.  It’s no surprise they have tried to take her for their own,” Olivia stated casually, inspecting her perfectly manicured fingernails before flicking her gaze back to her son.  “I really should have intervened sooner.  It’s clear you aren’t capable of protecting her on your own.  Honestly, I cannot _believe_ you let that little slut play mommy for so long.” 

Roman felt the simmering anger surging again, doubling with a hot wave of hunger.  He could hear the slow, dull thudding of Olivia’s heart her laboring to pump the thick, black blood through her veins.  Roman found himself hurling toward her before he could think better of it.  He crowded against her on the settee, pinning her with a knee along her hip and long fingers engulfing her throat.  Olivia rolled her eyes dramatically and Roman tightened the grip on her neck until her eyes grew round and her tongue lolled in her mouth.

“ _Who?_   Who is trying to take her?” Roman roared, his lips curling back with rage.

Olivia smiled and a tight laugh wrestled its way out of her throat.  “ _Everyone_ ,” she hissed. 

Before he was aware of what he was doing, Roman shifted his hand on Olivia’s throat to grip the back of her neck and expose her jugular.  Her heartbeat fluttered against the skin and Roman plunged his teeth into the vein, the blood spilling thick and greasy across his tongue.  It tasted all wrong but Roman couldn’t help himself.  He sucked greedily at the tear in the ivory skin.  Somewhere above him Roman heard Olivia laugh thickly and he felt long, cool fingers smooth across his temples and curl into his hair.  

The touch sent a shiver down his spine and Roman’s thoughts solidified briefly.  The blood in his mouth suddenly tasted of ash.  He reeled backwards quickly, stumbling over the upturned coffee table.  Olivia was still smiling dreamily as she brought her fingers to the wound at her throat.  She ran her fingertips delicately across the frayed flesh, her tongue passing once over her lips before she dropped her hand to inspect the blood smeared across the pads of her fingers. 

Roman panicked.  His hands shook violently as he all but ran to the entryway and wrenched open the door.  Olivia’s laugh grew bolder, echoing hollowly through the house.  Roman slammed the door behind him.   His breathing steadied minutely the moment the weak autumn sun touched his skin.  He sucked in a deep breath through his nose as he stalked towards the car for a quick escape.  He yanked open the door, which creaked in protest against the excessive force, and dropped into the seat with a shudder.

He had completely lost it.  The hunger still knotted in Roman’s stomach and the taste of Olivia on his tongue was nauseating.  Roman’s self-control was clearly in ruins and he needed a solution.  Fast.

Roman wiggled his phone out of his pants pocket with still-shaking fingers and dialed Pryce’s private line.  He wedged the phone between his cheek and his shoulder and turned the key in the ignition, desperate to get as far away from the Godfrey mansion as possible. 

“Hello, Roman.”  Johann Pryce’s voice sounded tense on the other end.

  “Pryce.  I need more.”  Roman didn’t elaborate.  He would handle the conversation with Pryce as he would with any drug dealer: short, abrupt sentences and no friendly anecdotes.  It wouldn’t be caught revealing his desperation, yet again. 

“Not possible.  I gave you enough for a week,” Pryce said in clipped tones.

“Well, it fucking spilled. You better invest in some studier tupperware, Pryce.   And last I checked, you work for me.  I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough.”

Pryce hesitated and Roman could hear the rustling of papers and starched lab coats over the line. 

“There has been a contamination,” Pryce said finally, with a strained sigh.

“What do you mean a _contamination_?  What could possibly contaminate a tank filled with liquefied human remains, Pryce?”  Roman was losing his patience. 

“That’s…it’s difficult to say.  But the experiment seems to have been sabotaged.”

Roman slammed on the brakes, sending the car squeaking and skidding onto the shoulder of the road.  He gripped the phone tightly in his fist, the plastic casing splintering and cracking at the edges, the glass screen shattering in web-like patterns around his fingers.   “Excuse me?”

“There has been a security breach.  Someone broke into the lab late last night.  A number of my most essential, top secret experiments have been tampered with.  The Godfrey Institute is on temporary lockdown.”

“How long?” Roman growled from between gritted teeth.

“Until we find out who-“

“No.  How long until you have more?”  Roman interrupted. 

“Three days.  Maybe four.”

Roman slammed the fist of his free hand against the steering wheel, sending shooting pains up his wrists.

“You have one day.  One.”

Pryce lowered his voice to a dangerous whisper, “ Don’t try to bully me, Roman.  The process _cannot_ be rushed.  It is not a matter of will.  It will take at least three days to synthesize the enzymes required to –”

“One.  Fucking.  Day.  Any longer and I’d start sleeping with my eyes open, if I were you, Pryce.  This is your fucking fault.  You did this to me and you will fix it.” 

“Threaten me all you want, Roman.  It won’t make any difference,” Pryce said, his voice unwavering. 

“Take care of Shelley.  And keep that one-eyed bitch on lockdown.  She is _not_ to be trusted.” 

“Understood.”

Roman hung up.  The hunger raged in his belly now, worsened by the reality that relief was nowhere in sight.  Looking for the party guilty of contaminating his food supply in the Godfrey Institute was futile, even Pryce knew it.  There was only one person with the clearance, knowledge and ability to thwart both Pryce and Roman, and that person was Olivia.  She was toying with him, he was sure of it.  She would find a way to insert herself back into Roman’s life at the cost of a hundred others.  But Roman would die before he gave her the pleasure.

********

 Peter took a long drag on the joint clutched between shaking fingers.  The paper crackled and hissed as it burned, singeing his fingertips slightly.  He had managed to stay stoned most of the day, suppressing the itch beneath his skin and the burn in his belly that accompanied the coming of the full moon. 

One more day.

Peter was accustomed to the anxiety that accompanied the change.   During the twenty-four hours prior, he had nearly driven his mother crazy with his constant twitching, pacing and fumbling.  He would be hypersensitive, rendering the slightest touch like an electric shock.  After a few years, the pre-moon jitters morphed into something decidedly more x-rated.  The anxiousness would flutter in his gut until it turned molten hot and liquid and even the tightness of his jeans across his hips could send a groan bubbling from his lips.  But, like all things in Peter’s life since coming to Hemlock Grove, it had grown even worse.  Nearly unbearable, if he was being honest.  He had changed against the moon one too many times, he knew it.  He could feel the wolf all the time now, flexing beneath his skin and clawing behind his ribcage.  It had become difficult to differentiate between his own consciousness and that of the beast and Peter feared that he would lose himself completely.  He had already come close on more than one occasion.

He shifted uncomfortably, the rumpled sheets beneath him already damp with sweat.  He raked his hands across his face and through his hair a little too roughly, pulling at the roots and failing to suppress a moan.  It was agony, but Peter refused to give in to his baser instincts and folded his hands chastely on his chest, well above the waist.  Jerking off now in an attempt to relieve the tension would be pointless, as tempting as it was.  Like sticking a finger in a crack in the dam; once he started the urge would become uncontrollable and his desire insatiable.  It was more than a little bit humiliating and he thought he would at least do Destiny and Andreas the courtesy of waiting until they were gone or asleep (not that they’ve ever extended such a courtesy to Peter, despite the thin walls). 

He needed to get out of the house, find something to do, somewhere to go that could distract him from the itch under his skin.  He thought briefly about calling Roman.  In fact, he had thought about calling Roman about a hundred times since he woke up, but thought better of it every time.  Things with Roman were…complicated.  And in his current state, Peter was in no mood for complications.

Maybe if he didn’t feel completely unstable and like his bones were vibrating so hard it made his teeth chatter, he would have just spent the rest of the weekend napping and fucking between Roman’s Egyptian cotton sheets with the obscenely high thread count.  The thought was incredibly appealing, but Peter needed to be able to process whatever the fuck he thought he was doing with Roman when his head was clear rather than humming.  What they were playing with felt serious and weighty.  As much as Peter wanted to jump in head first, he feared the water might be shallow. 

But Peter couldn’t deny that he was slightly worried.  He hadn’t heard from Roman since he’d driven Peter home yesterday.  Had something happened? Peter was sure Roman had gone to speak to Olivia for answers about the events that had occurred in the woods.  Just the thought gave him chills. 

Peter should have gone with him. 

The stab of guilt that followed the thought was as familiar to Peter as the back of his own hand.  He had failed Roman too many times to count.  He ran away and hid with his tail between his legs once again and left Roman to fend on his own. 

He pushed himself to a seated position and grabbed the phone from his nightstand, typing out a text to Roman.  It felt a bit impersonal, but in his current state, Peter wasn’t sure he’d be able to have a logical conversation.  Or, even worse, that he might just come in his pants from the sound of Roman’s voice, which would be entirely inappropriate considering his sincere worry for his friend’s wellbeing. 

**_hey. Everything ok?  Laying low until the moon passes.  Let me know ur alright._ **

As Peter hit the send button, there was a soft knock on his door. 

Peter grunted and the door swung open a crack.  Destiny peeked her head into Peter’s room. 

“Hey, how are you feeling?”

Peter just covered his eyes and groaned in response. 

Destiny made a sympathetic noise, “We’re going out.  Some of Andreas’ friends are having a party.  Do you want to come?  Get some air, maybe?” 

“Probably a bad idea,” Peter muttered.  “I’m not exactly feeling like myself, if you catch my drift.”  Peter let his hands fall to his sides on the bed.  He deserved this agonizing isolation. 

Andreas rounded the corner with a boisterous smile and three shots of brown liquor between his fingers.  “Drink up, pal.  We’re getting you out of here for some much needed human interaction.”  He held the liquor out to Peter who eyed it incredulously.  “Notice how I said _human_ interaction.  It’ll be good for you.  C’mon!” 

Andreas was practically dancing, bouncing from foot to foot.  His enthusiasm was rather infectious and Peter felt a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth.  Maybe a little good ol’ fashioned fun would be exactly what he needed to get a grip?  And a few drinks might ease the itch from the moon.  He just needed to get through tonight and tomorrow and then he and Roman could talk things through.  He was no good to his friend in his current state anyway.  Hell, this is exactly what Roman would do if he were in Peter’s place.  He’d get drunk, get high, get laid and get the hell over it.    

 “Fuck it,” Peter said with a sigh and threw back the shot, letting the whiskey burn hot and soothing down his aching throat. 

Destiny gave him a little smirk and followed his lead, draining the shot glass with a toss of her curly head. 

“Atta boy!” Andreas exclaimed. 

Another shot (or was it two?) later, Destiny was shoving Peter into the station wagon and they were driving while Andreas sang loudly to the radio, tapping out the beat on the steering wheel as he drove.  Maybe it was the impending drunkenness, or the momentary distraction from his thoughts, but Peter was starting to enjoy himself.  Soon, he was singing backup for Andreas and leaning his head a little too far out the window.  

They arrived outside a shabby duplex tucked into a forested corner of Hemlock Grove.  It was located just a few mere miles from Roman’s boxy, modern home and the realization made Peter’s stomach churn with guilt.  But he pushed it aside, assuring himself that Roman was fine, was safe and that he just needed to blow off a little steam.  Everything was _fine._

 Inside, the lights were dim and the room smelled like stale beer and the skunky, green aroma of marijuana.  The fine smoke filled the room, shrouding clusters of people speaking closely or swaying to some vaguely rhythmic music playing over the speakers.  Peter thought he might have recognized a couple of people from school that he hadn’t given a thought to since.

 Peter half hoped Roman would be here, at least then he’d have someone to make him appear slightly less isolated and awkward.  But Roman would never be at a party like this one.  There weren’t enough strippers or cocaine or expensive cocktails that come in ridiculously impractical martini glasses.  So, Peter did the only thing he could think of to pass the time and ease the anxiousness: he got a drink.  And then he got another one. 

At some point, things started to turn foggy.  In order to keep from compulsively checking his phone or sending Roman inappropriate drunk text messages (although he would probably enjoy those), Peter struck up pointless, inebriated conversations with Andreas and Destiny’s friends.  There may have been some dancing, and maybe some more shots, possibly some off another person’s body, and maybe one right out of someone’s mouth. 

And then Peter found himself pressed against a wall with small, soft hands pulling at the buttons on his shirt and full lips and warm breath at his neck.  His fingers were wound into long, blonde curls that smelled of grapefruit and Peter forgot whether he was trying to push her away or pull her closer, whoever she was.  Peter kissed her recklessly and she returned his desperation, soft little moans pouring from between her swollen lips.  An uncomfortable, consuming, but immensely pleasurable heat shot through Peter leaving his skin singing with the waxing of the moon.  He held her tightly, nipping at her lips and tongue with his teeth until her sounds of pleasure turned to gasps and whimpers of pain. 

“Easy, tiger!” she yelped, but she was smiling and pressed herself harder against Peter.     

Peter pulled away and the creeping guilt and discomfort returned, shoving its way through the haze of lust and alcohol.  This was a bad idea.  A really fucking bad idea. 

 “I’m going to the bathroom,” he mumbled, grabbing her wrists gently and pulling her hands from his face and the zipper of his jeans. 

“Want company?”  She giggled again.  The tinny little noise had completely lost its charm and sounded rather hollow and desperate.

“No, I’m good.  You just stay here.  Or leave.  Do whatever you want.”

Peter stumbled off down the hall in what he hoped was the direction of the bathroom.  It was all he could do to keep from wanting to rip his skin off.  Or hers.  He should have known better. 

After pushing against a few locked doors, he found the restroom.  It was grimy little room with off-white walls speckled with blooming black mold.  The hand towels were crumpled and stained, the sink basin was gritty with scum and the bar of hand soap floated in a puddle of greyish water.  Peter turned the sink on hot until steam puffed up, fogging the mirror.  He ran his hands under the water and watched as the skin tightened and turned pink.  The pain was a welcome distraction from the throbbing already growing between his ears and the itch in his bones. 

Strangely, the steam began to grow thicker and more opaque as it billowed up from the porcelain.  It filled Peter’s lungs and he felt them constrict and convulse, choking on the hot air as if it was smoke.  It stung Peter’s eyes and made them water, obscuring his sight.  His reflection in the mirror above the sink wavered and Peter’s vision went completely blank, the bright white consuming him.  Peter thought he heard someone speaking, maybe begging.  But before he could call out, the world around him trickled away in the cloud of steam and smoke.

*******

The next thing Peter felt was cold:  a biting, painful cold that left his nose and fingers numb and sore.  He blinked rapidly and the world came back into focus.  Drunkenness lingered at the fringes of his consciousness, slightly dissipated but still entirely present.  The yellowing walls and swirling steam of the duplex bathroom was gone, replaced with the cold, crisp emptiness of the dark night air.  He was outside.  Funny, he didn’t remember leaving the party.  It took Peter another moment before he realized he was walking, placing one foot in front of the other with some strange purpose, as if his body knew where he was going and his mind need only to catch up. 

He was on a road lined with trees.  The bright orange and red leaves clung desperately to the brittle bows in the chilly breeze as their fallen brothers crunched beneath Peter’s boots on the asphalt.  Peter couldn’t pinpoint exactly where he was and a brief rush of fear surged through him.  It looked vaguely familiar, but everything looked the same in the dark.  Was he lost?  Was he in danger?  Why had he even left the party?

 He looked at his phone.  The illuminated screen pronounced the time 1:17am.  How had it gotten so late?  There were three text messages waiting for him, all from Destiny.

**_Where the hell did you go?  Andreas said you bailed.  Do you have a ride home?_ **

**_Are you even going home?_ **

**_Peter, be careful._ **

A light ahead caught Peter’s eye.  He quickened his pace until he reached the end of the road where the asphalt turned to loose gravel and the light that had drawn him in like a moth to the flame took the shape of two pale, flickering neon signs. 

          44

                     HOME

_Well, shit._   Peter stopped walking and dragged his fingers across his face and rubbing at his eyes, as if it would make his moon-bathed skin stop itching long enough to figure out how he had ended up, yet again, standing in Roman Godfrey’s front yard. 

As if beckoned by the thought, the front door open and Roman emerged.  The house behind him was dark and he squinted against the moonlight. His arms were crossed over his chest, his fingers clutching at the skin of his bicep.  His mouth was pulled tight and even in the sparse light, Peter could see that his eyes were bloodshot and the skin beneath them was as dark and purple as a bruise. 

He looked at Peter, the confusion showing in his eyes, but he didn’t move from the doorstep.  He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and shook one loose.  He placed it between pursed lips and lit it clumsily, his fingers fumbling over the safety on the lighter.  He inhaled deeply before he spoke, the smoke snaking from his mouth along with his words. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?”  There was an edge to his words, but it wasn’t his usual malice.  It was something closer to exhaustion or maybe even pain. 

“Damned if I know,” Peter said.   “So, can I come in?”


	13. Possession

 

Roman paced for hours. 

He had barely made it twenty-four hours since calling Pryce and the constant buzz of pain was quickly building to an agonizing roar.  With no relief in sight, the hunger was almost too much to withstand.   Roman had sent the help home for the evening and had instructed the nanny to remain behind locked doors with Nadia until morning.  He had even gone so far as to disassemble his phone and stash the pieces in hiding places all over the house.  If he could call someone to him he’d inevitably have the extreme inconvenience of yet another corpse to dispose of by morning.  He simply couldn’t be trusted. 

But God, everything hurt.  Even in the near darkness, the weak light from the moon felt like needles in his eyes and Roman’s head felt heavy and swollen, nearly ready to split in two from the pressure.   His muscles were wound so tight that no amount of movement or rest could alleviate the aching cramps and his tongue lay thick and his mouth dry.

So Roman paced.  He made lap after lap around each room in the house, intermittently dragging his fingers along the walls and then clenching them into fists, the blood welling in the crescent-shaped indents where his fingernails bit into the skin.  He tried to use the tangible pain to draw his attention from the gnawing hunger, but he was too far gone. 

Hours passed, or maybe it was only minutes, Roman couldn’t say.  The last shreds of his will power and dignity flayed away as the hunger and the fear of the pain it caused left Roman a trembling, fumbling mess.  He was humiliated and frustrated at his pitiful lack of self-control.  Certainly Olivia would be giddy with excitement if she knew Roman was unraveling and everything was playing out exactly as she planned.  Roman would sooner die than let Olivia close enough to smell the weakness on him, not again. 

He needed to focus, to train his thoughts on something other than the twisting, coiling snake of hunger in his belly.  But, of course, being the masochist that he was, his brain could find only one outlet, one singular safe haven, and that was Peter. 

The moon was nearly full and Peter was likely riding out the associated pre-transformation discomforts under Destiny’s watchful eye.  And Peter’s affections, which wavered from scalding hot to subzero, had left Roman feeling wary.  Naturally, the harder Peter tried to draw up that thin shield of friendship or responsibility that masked what had simmered between them throughout their relationship, the more desperately Roman wanted to cling to him, to claim him and keep him in the ways that no one else could.  But Roman was a danger to everyone, even Peter.   It was a truth he dwelled on regularly, flagellating himself bloody with self-doubt.  So long as Roman hungered, Peter would not be safe.  In fact, it had been Peter’s safety that prompted Roman to take apart his phone.  Calling Peter would be a mistake.  A huge, catastrophic, code-blue kind of mistake. 

Roman sunk to his knees and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, hoping to ground himself.  But his mind slipped away from him like sand through his fingers, falling faster the harder he grasped at it. 

The hunger consumed him.

His mind exploded with pain that burned so white hot his vision went momentarily blank.  He was lost in the void of blank space and his sense of corporeal solidity faded into mist.  Roman’s mind grasped fruitlessly in the nothingness and the blinding white momentarily cleared, swirling away in foggy tendrils like steam on a mirror.  Beyond the suffocating blankness, Roman saw Peter, blurred slightly, as if in a dream.  Peter leaned forward heavily against a low counter.  The sink in front of him was on and he could hear the clear rush of the water falling from the faucet into the basin.  Peter raised his eyes to the reflection in the dirty mirror behind the sink.  He looked right at Roman. 

Roman tried to speak, but although his lips moved, no sound was uttered.  It felt like there were hands clasped around his neck, squeezing closed the airways and causing Roman’s lungs to burn painfully.  Roman focused and rasped just enough air through his throat to choke out a single word. 

Roman was reeling.  He grasped blindly around him, clawing at the wall he had slumped against.  He was suddenly extremely aware of the hard wood beneath his knees, the chill in the air as it tore through his ravaged lungs and the tickle of something warm dripping from his nose to fall, wet and hot onto the backs of his hands.  The blood was a splash of color in a world that had been reduced to black and white by Roman’s starved brain and he lapped at it hungrily, but it was weak and bitter in his mouth. 

He was losing it, cracking completely, Roman thought.  He was conjuring up hallucinations of Peter and it was more than a little bit unsettling.  It was the same blurry, watered-down incarnation of Peter that Roman had experienced in his dreams, the ones that always gave him nosebleeds. 

He got to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom.  He washed the blood from his nose and chin and splashed the cold water across his eyes and cheeks to ease the heat and swelling behind his eye sockets.  He purposely avoided his reflection in the mirror.  The hunger was shrouding Roman in a thick fog, reducing him to naught but his baser instincts; there was only blood and the distant flutter of unidentified heartbeats.  Shame and disgust fought for dominance over the last shreds of Roman’s consciousness.  He wiped at his nose once more, sniffling and sucking the last of the blood down his nasal passage.  He spat once into the sink and turned on the faucet, watching as the blood swirled, pink and watery, down the drain. 

Roman’s eyes ached and he turned off all the lights in the hallway as he stumbled toward the living room couch.  He collapsed stiffly into the unforgiving cushions and slung an arm over his eyes in attempt to block out the feeble beams of moonlight from his stinging eyes. 

He could feel Nadia in the upstairs bedroom, her little heart fluttering soft and gentle like butterfly wings.  Her nanny’s heart beat louder, a lethargic thudding that not even the steel room that concealed her could dampen.  Hell, Roman could even hear the pulse of a myriad of animals hiding in the forest surrounding his house, his fortress of solitude. 

Roman lost himself to the hunger again for a time and the minutes passed, each one stretching for what felt like an eternity.  The cacophony of beating hearts and throbbing veins began to fade into white noise and Roman thought he might be sleeping, though it was the sweaty, fitful sleep that would accompany a fever. 

And then a singular heartbeat drowned out the chorus of animal and human pulses.  It thumped strong, loud and familiar.  Roman’s eyes snapped open and he winced against the weak light.  Roman’s hands curled into fists at his sides as dread pooled in his stomach, cold and slimy.  The heartbeat grew louder, closer.  _No._   _It couldn’t be_. 

Roman drew himself to his feet and went to the front hall before crumpling and pressing his face against the frosted glass that framed the doorway.  The glass was cool and Roman tried to absorb the chill into his fevered skin, resisting the urge to run his tongue across the smooth surface.  The thick, wet sound of the nearing heartbeat thudded in Roman’s brain, leaving him practically vibrating in its wake. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Roman groaned.  He ran a hand across the smooth wood of the door until he felt the brass door handle beneath his fingers.  He turned the latch and pushed himself back, opening the door and stepping out into cold, clear night. 

Peter shuffled out of the shadows with a heartbeat so bright and alive it was deafening.  Roman braced himself against the wall next to the front door to keep from sinking to his knees.  And oh god, he was beautiful.  Peter radiated life like he was the fucking sun and it was intoxicating.  His blue eyes were soft but oh-so bright, framed by a mop of messy, dark hair that fell in tangled tendrils to Peter’s chin.  His shirt was wrinkled and half unbuttoned and his jacket unzipped even in the cold, as if he had just rolled out of some warm, dark corner and into Roman’s orbit. 

Roman could feel his mind sharpen like the edge of a blade dragged against a whet stone.  The fog of hunger dissipated, leaving the razor-edge focus of a starved predator. 

He distracted himself by pulling a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and tapping the carton against the heel of his hand, shaking one loose.  He lifted the cigarette to his lips and lit it.  His fingers trembled from the effort of restraint. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Roman managed to ask, the hoarse sound of his voice startling him.  Somewhere in the back of Roman’s mind, the pitiful human part drowned out by the bloodlust, knew the answer.  But Roman gladly let the thought sift away, unwilling to acknowledge the possibility.  The nosebleed, the headache, the sickening wave of hunger that had nearly overtaken him in the bathroom as he avoided the darkened gaze of this own reflection.  Had he called Peter here?  

Roman thought he saw a flicker of apprehension cross Peter’s face before it melted away into a lazy half-smile. 

“Damned if I know,” Peter said lightly.  He cocked his head slightly to one side and ran his tongue over his bottom lip, his smile bordering on predatory and causing liquid desire to pool in the base of Roman’s stomach.  “So, can I come in?”

Roman pressed his lips together, clamping them shut to keep the traitorous consent from sneaking past his teeth.  He just shook his head slowly, his arms crossed over his chest like a shield. 

Peter looked mildly surprised.  He took a few steps toward Roman and Roman fought the desire to fall back a step in retreat.

“Why not?” Peter asked. 

When Roman didn’t answer, Peter took a few more steps forward until he was close enough that Roman could feel the heat radiating from his skin.  Roman held his breath. 

Peter’s eyebrows knitted together in concern.  “You’ve got blood on your face,” he said, reaching towards Roman with his eyes fixed at the corner of Roman’s mouth. 

Roman flinched away from the touch violently, flailing slightly and dropping his still smoking cigarette. Peter’s eyes went wide and startled. 

“Jesus, don’t freak out,” Peter said gently. 

In an attempt to regain his composure, Roman sucked in a deep shuddering breath before he realized his mistake.  The second the oxygen hit his lungs, Roman was overcome with Peter’s scent.  _Oh god._   Roman was drowning in the smell of pine trees, smoke, rich earth and fresh rain.  If pure life-force had a smell, this was it. 

A moan tore its way out of Roman’s throat and his arm shot forward of its own accord, grabbing a fistful of Peter’s already rumpled shirt.  He jerked Peter toward him and then back against the side of the house, caging the other man with a wide stance.  Roman couldn’t help himself.  He pressed his face to Peter’s collar bone and dragged his nose up the nape of his neck to the space behind his ear, inhaling deeply.  Now Roman could smell the stink of cheap whiskey, warm beer and the sweet, cloying scent of a woman’s perfume. 

There was lipstick on his collar and there was a pale purple bruise with the indents of small, square teeth developing at the base of his neck.   A wave of possessiveness overcame Roman and he slammed a fist against the wall beside Peter’s head.  But Peter didn’t flinch.  Instead, he growled and Roman could feel the low rumble against his chest as Peter gripped Roman’s hips hard enough to bruise. 

“You smell like cheap slut,” Roman snarled, lifting his face from Peter’s neck and the offending smell.

Peter chuckled softly.  “No need for name calling.”

“It’s repulsive,” Roman hissed.  His uncurled his fist against the wall and dragged it down to Peter’s throat, fingers lingering over the bite at his neck and feeling the throb of his pulse beneath the bruise.  He longed to taste it, but instead just watched the vein flicker with increasing speed.   “And for some fucked up reason, you’re back here, waiting at my doorstep like a lost puppy, yet again.  What’s wrong, Rumancek?  She leave you high and dry?”

“Not likely.  Poor thing didn’t know what she was getting herself into,” Peter said with a wolfish smile, his eyes flicking up to the nearly full moon. 

“And you think I do?”  Roman licked his lips unconsciously, spreading his fingers and winding them around Peter’s neck, his palm flat against his throat. 

“Fuck, yeah.” 

Roman slid his hand from Peter’s neck to push fingers into his hair.  Peter’s eyes fluttered shut and he leaned into the touch with a sigh.  “You’re fucking drunk.  And you shouldn’t be here.  It’s not a good idea.” 

“Oh, yeah?  Then why did you call me?” Peter asked, his eyes still closed as he turned his head slightly under Roman’s hand, pressing his lips against the raised white scar Roman’s wrist.  Roman shivered.

“I didn’t call you.  My phone’s in pieces,” Roman replied. 

“Not on the phone.  I heard you, though.  You called me.  And now I’m here.”  Peter dragged teeth across Roman’s wrist and opened his eyes to fix Roman with just about the darkest, hungriest look he’d ever since outside his own reflection in the mirror.  “What are you going to do about it?”

Roman tightened his grip on Peter’s hair and yanked him forward, away from the wall.  He wrenched Peter’s head back, exposing his throat, and Roman could smell the blood as it pulsed through the network of veins beneath the thin skin.  He ran his tongue over the pulse point, tasting the salt on Peter’s skin and feeling Peter shiver against him.  And with that, Roman was lost.

“Your funeral,” he murmured against Peter’s jugular, his hand still fisted tightly in his long hair, before he backed Peter through the open door and into the dark house. 

Once inside, Peter twisted from Roman’s grip and peeled off his jacket, tossing it on the banister at the base of the stairs.  He turned slowly to regard Roman with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.  Roman didn’t bother waiting for any further invitation and crowded into Peter’s space, pressing against him and looping an arm around his waist.  He claimed Peter’s lips hungrily, pushing his tongue into Peter’s warm mouth with little resistance. 

The blood was rushing in Roman’s ears and he lost the rhythm of his own pulse in the deafening sound of Peter’s.  He felt it thrum through his veins like the beat of a drum until he was losing himself in the sound and the feel of Peter’s very existence.  Peter’s skin was hot to the touch, almost feverish, as Roman ran his hands under Peter’s shirt.  He smoothed his fingers down the soft flesh, relishing the way it gave underneath the press of his fingertips, the way it swelled with the drag of his fingernails. 

Peter groaned obscenely and bit down none too lightly on Roman’s bottom lip, his hips rolling involuntarily.  Roman felt the hot sting of blood as it welled on his lip.  Peter ran his tongue slow and wet, across the bite.  Roman saw the stripe of red on Peter’s tongue before it disappeared into Peter’s mouth, and Roman was pulled under by a wave of desire and hunger.

His body moved as if possessed, his mind scrambling to keep up.  He took a firm grip on Peter’s hips and drove him backwards with furious force, slamming him against the wall with a hiss.  He pressed his full length against Peter and kissed him messily recklessly, all tongues and hot breath and breathy little moans.  Roman felt Peter’s heart rate pick up, racing now, and he couldn’t help but drop his mouth back to Peter’s throat, feeling the veins throbbing beneath his lips. 

“Shit.  I’m starting to see a pattern here with the whole throwing me against walls thing,” Peter said, running hands down Roman’s stomach and hooking his fingers into the front of his jeans, toying with the button before popping it open with a flick.    

“It’s a lot harder for you to run away when I’ve got you pinned,” Roman growled against Peter’s jugular.  He ran fingers delicately down Peter’s arms before grabbing his wrists firmly and slamming them against the wall above his head, pinning him with a bruising grip. 

Roman lowered his mouth to the junction between Peter’s shoulder and throat and sucked hard until the skin turned purple and swollen.  Roman lavished his tongue across the bruise, relishing the metallic tang of blood so close to the skin. 

“Christ,” Peter hissed.  “Possessive much?”

Roman lifted his gaze from the blossoming mark on Peter’s neck to his face, taking in Peter’s pupils, blown wide, his lips parted slightly and slick with moisture.  The desire coiled tightly in his stomach at the entirely debauched look on Peter’s face.  Possessive didn’t even come close to describing Roman’s feeling at that moment.  He didn’t just want to possess Peter, he wanted to own him, devour him and utterly ruin him for anyone else.  He wanted to crack open his ribcage, take Peter’s heart between his fingers and lap the pure, oxygenated blood as it dripped fresh from the ventricles.  He wanted to hear Peter beg and moan his name as he consumed him, body and soul. 

He brought his mouth close to Peter’s, just a breath away, as he spoke.  “You think this is possessive?” He pinched at the growing bruise at the base of Peter’s neck.  “I’ll show you possessive.  I’m going to fucking destroy you.  Do you even know what you do to me? Do you even fucking care? You come and go as you please, leave when it suits you.  You think you can play with me like a dog with a fucking bone.  But you’ve forgotten who I am, what I am.  And I’ve had enough of your games. “  

“Trying to scare me, Godfrey?” Peter taunted with a drunken, insolent smirk.  He wiggled slightly in Roman grip, canting his hips forward, pressing his erection against Roman’s thigh. 

Roman didn’t even try to clamp down on the anger as he tightened his grip on Peter’s wrists with his left hand and wrapped his right tightly around Peter’s throat, feeling the quick, thudding heartbeat against the palm of his hand.  He was losing control and didn’t care to try and piece his composure back together. 

“You are _mine,_ Peter Rumancek,” Roman growled.  “You belong to _me._   I don’t like sharing.  If you betray me again, I will kill you because I’d rather see you dead than with anyone else.  Do you hear me?  _Mine.”_

If Peter’s expression had betrayed any fear, Roman didn’t wait to see it.  He yanked Peter from the wall and sent him reeling and stumbling backwards into the living room.  He lost his footing at the corner of the carpet, throwing out his arms behind him and barely catching himself as he fell sprawling onto the floor. 

Roman was lost in the intoxicating thumping of Peter’s heart.  He could hear it echoing in through the room, reverberating against his eardrums.  The deafening sound was only punctuated by Peter’s ragged breathing, watching as Roman stalked toward him, his eyes wide.   Peter’s hands were balled into fists at his side and his hair fell messily across his face in a way that made Roman’s heart flip in his chest with anticipation.     

Roman loomed briefly over Peter, who was sprawled gracelessly on the ground beneath him, before sinking to his knees between Peter’s thighs.  He tore roughly at the buttons of Peter’s shirt and yanking it open to run his tongue, flat and hot against Peter’s nipple, feeling him arch beneath Roman with a breathy moan.  Roman flicked his tongue against the raised nub, letting it harden beneath his ministrations.  He rolled the flesh between his teeth briefly and Peter hissed sharply, gripping the short hairs at the back of Roman’s skull in tight fists, pulling deliciously.   

Roman trailed rough kisses and bites down Peter’s torso and scratched nails down his sides just to feel him squirm beneath him and reveling in the friction.  He buried his nose in the fine trail of dark hair beneath Peter’s bellybutton, inhaling deeply that musk and juniper scent that made Roman’s mouth water.  He could feel Peter’s erection straining against his chest, still trapped in his jeans.  Roman ran an open palm over the rough fabric and chanced a look at Peter, who had thrown back his head, his mouth open and his eyes squeezed shut. 

Suppressing a self-satisfied grin, Roman bit sharply at Peter’s hip bone, propping himself up on one elbow and using the other hand to pop the button on Peter’s jeans and pull the zipper down with agonizing restraint.  Peter unthreaded his hand from Roman’s hair to yank at his jeans, wiggling them over his hips, panting with desperation.  Peter gripped the band of his boxers to pull them off but Roman stilled him with a firm, ungentle hand over his aching cock and a slow shake of his head.  Peter growled again and threw his hands up, pushing them into his hair and pulling hard with an arch of his back. 

Peter writhed and moaned as Roman pressed his cheek against Peter’s cock, letting his hot breath ghost over the moisture leaking from the tip, blooming wet and dark on the fabric. 

“Ah, fuck,” Peter cursed with a sharp inhale. 

It was too much.  There was too much clothing still between them and Roman was feeling drunk with lust, fraying at the edges at the very feel of Peter’s erection beneath his lips, hot and heavy beneath the thin layer of fabric.  Roman took the elastic waistband of Peter’s shorts between his teeth and peeled them away with painful slowness.  He pushed himself back onto his knees, pulling the boxers and the jeans bunched at Peter’s ankles away, leaving him completely bare and hard as steel at Roman’s mercy.

Roman longed to feel the heat of Peter’s skin beneath him and hastily pulled his shirt over his head and kicked off his pants, leaving them in a heap.  He kissed his way up the inside of Peter’s thigh, hearing his breath grow even more ragged, and hovering over the femoral artery.  The sound and smell of Peter’s blood was so intoxicating here that Roman found himself licking at biting at the spot, letting the sweetness and the wicked temptation spread over him.  He longed to sink his teeth into the flesh here, so soft and tender, and feel the blood spill hot and coppery over his tongue, but he resisted.  Instead, he pressed his nose against the artery as he wrapped a firm hand around Peter’s cock, stroking it firmly as Peter trembled beneath him. 

When the temptation to bite down grew too strong, Roman dragged his lips to Peter’s erection, flicking his tongue over the tip and then swirling it around the glans while gripping the shaft. 

“Holy fuck – _god_ , Roman.  Shit.”  The obscenities were pouring from Peter’s mouth now, his hips bucking as Roman took him all the way into his mouth, burying his nose into the fine, dark hair at the base of Peter’s cock and then pulling back with the swirl of his tongue and the slightest hint of suction.

Roman released Peter briefly, causing him to gasp and moan softly.  Roman could feel the wicked smile spreading across his face but did nothing to stop it.  Peter’s desperation was palpable and Roman was hungry for it.  Roman craved Peter’s submission like a starving man at a buffet table and he would tame his wild-hearted wolf if it killed him.  He would show Peter how sweet it could feel to be owned completely, body and soul.

Roman pressed two fingers against Peter’s lips.  “Suck,” he said, his voice husky and drawn with desire. 

Peter’s eyes darkened beneath heavy lashes as he parted his lips, taking Roman’s fingers into the heat of his mouth and lavishing them with his tongue. 

“Good dog,” Roman taunted, pulling his fingers away and returning to his position between Peter’s thighs.  Peter’s retort was drowned out by a moan as Roman swallowed him deep and slow.

Peter’s hips lifted, straining deeper into Roman’s mouth as Roman ran long, spit-slick fingers between Peter’s cheeks.  He circled Peter’s entrance tantalizingly, teasing gasps and moans from Peter’s lips.

“God.  Roman, please.  _Please_!” Peter begged. 

With a feeling of triumph, Roman acquiesced.  He pushed one finger, one very _long_ finger inside Peter and then pulled it back out slowly as Peter hissed loudly.  Roman pressed his finger back in and crooked it to drag against Peter’s prostate.  Peter gasped and cursed loudly. 

Roman quickened the pace of his mouth around Peter’s cock and added a second finger inside him and then a third, sliding against the little bundle of nerves ruthlessly with each stroke. 

Peter was getting close and Roman could taste the salty, bitterness of precome on the back of his tongue.   Peter was nearly gasping for air, releasing each breath with a needy mewl.   The taste and sound was intoxicating and Roman nearly lost himself in the musky flavor and the feeling of blood rushing in his ears. 

“Oh my god, Roman, I’m going to –” Peter hissed, fingers wrapping tightly into Roman’s hair and grinding against his mouth while simultaneously trying to push back against the fingers inside of him. 

Roman pulled off and out abruptly, wiping the saliva from his lips with the back of his hand.  Peter made a delicious keening noise at the loss, his hands clenching into fists at his sides to keep from touching himself.  Sweat was beading up delicately along his hairline, his face and chest deliciously flushed and his lips were red and swollen from his teeth as he tried to trap each moan.  It was fucking gorgeous and Roman moaned at the sight.  He was going to eat this man alive.    

“No,” Roman whispered hoarsely.  “Not yet.  You’ll come when I say so.”

Peter surged up with a growl, wrapping his thighs tightly around Romans hips, dragging him down against him and taking his mouth viciously.  Peter’s naked skin against Roman’s was hot like a brand and he let Peter drown him in bites and hungry kisses, grinding into the body beneath him shamelessly until he couldn’t stand it another second.  Peter lifted his hips slightly, a bold invitation and Roman pushed inside him.  He didn’t bother to wait for Peter to adjust and snapped his hips forward savagely. 

Peter cried out but Roman didn’t retreat.  He slammed into that tight heat again and again, his fingers clawing over Peter’s thighs, wrapped around his waist.  Roman could feel the burn of the carpet against his knees but couldn’t be bothered to care as the pain filtered weakly in the back of his mind, too consumed by the lust for flesh and blood.  He buried his face in Peter’s neck, inhaling deeply, losing himself to heady scent of the blood rushing through the carotid artery. 

Peter was speaking to him, but Roman couldn’t hear him, the thrumming in his head now deafening.  But the gruff rumble of Peter’s voice in his ear was dragging against his consciousness.  Peter’s hands were on his face, his eyes too bright. 

“Do it,” he said. 

Roman just shook his head.  _No,_ Roman thought foggily.  _He can’t mean it._

“Do it!” Peter said again, his voice firm. 

“I can’t.  _No_.”  Roman protested weakly. 

Peter ground himself down against Roman, groaning loudly, his eyelids fluttering closed briefly.  When he opened them again a moment later they shone yellow, flashing brightly despite the darkness in the room. 

“I said _do it._ ”  Peter stretched his neck long, exposing the pale column of his throat. 

Time stuttered to a halt as Roman watched the long vein in Peter’s throat throb rhythmically.  Roman let the last of his resolve crumble around him as he gave into the agonizing hunger.  He ran fingers through Peter’s long, dark hair gently before gripping it firmly and wrenching Peter’s back.  He could feel Peter’s ragged breathing and smell his fear in the moment before he drove his teeth into the thin flesh.

“Fuck!” Peter shouted, his body spasming with the pain. 

Roman clamped his mouth over the tear in Peter’s throat and let the blood flood his mouth, moaning loudly.  It still tasted wrong, never as sweet or as thin as human blood.  No, Peter’s blood was thick and metallic.  It tasted powerful, dangerous and so very alive. 

Roman was on fire.  He drank deeply as he fucked Peter savagely.  Distantly, Roman could hear Peter moaning his name and pushing back against him, his cock hard and hot against Roman’s stomach.  Roman took him in hand, stroking fast and rough until he felt Peter go still beneath him.  A brief moment of panic surged through Roman and he pulled away from Peter’s neck, the blood still flowing and spilling down his chin. 

Peter’s eyes were squeezed shut and his face was pulled tight, lost somewhere between pleasure and pain.  Roman thrust into him deeply once more and Peter came with a something akin to a howl.  His bright yellow eyes snapped open as he shuddered, his body tightening around Roman’s cock as hot liquid spurted between them.

And then Roman was falling, plummeting towards orgasm hard and fast.  It was as if he had been plunged into the fire, the heat burning away his flesh and turning his bones to ash and he’d never felt anything like it.  It was agony and it was bliss and Roman thought he might never come back from it. 

Little by little, his thoughts slowly filtered back to him as his brain eased back into his skull.  His face was pressed against Peter’s neck and the blood from the bite was still trickling slowly from the wound.  Roman lapped at it languidly, like a cat would a bowl of cream.  He heard Peter chuckle softly and Roman pulled away, his cheeks burning with embarrassment and the flush of fresh blood. 

He pulled back to look at Peter, half afraid of what he might see.  But Peter was looking at him with a smile on his lips, his eyes sparkling and sapphire blue.  Peter lifted a hand and pressed it against the wound on his neck, stifling the bleeding as Roman rolled off him and onto his back, breathing heavily. 

“Oh my god,” Peter breathed. 

Roman just groaned. 

“We look like a fucking crime scene,” Peter said, turning to Roman with a smile playing at the corners of his lips. 

Peter wasn’t kidding.  There was blood everywhere.  It was smeared all over Peter’s throat and chest and had spilled onto the carpet.  Roman could only assume he looked even worse, based on the tight, sticky feeling across his face and neck, not to mention the cooling fluids spattered across his stomach. 

“Shee-it.  And I had just gotten all the bloodstains out of this carpet from last time,” Roman said with a huff of laughter. 

Peter rolled onto his stomach and propped himself on his elbows, his hand still clutched to his neck.  Roman winced as the blood trickled between Peter’s fingers.  He reached toward Peter and gingerly pulled his hand away.  Peter didn’t flinch but simply squeezed his eyes shut briefly as the cool air hit the wound. 

The skin was torn and ragged around the gash and the blood pulsed thickly from the dark red center.  Roman reached for his discarded shirt and pressed it against the wound to slow the blood flow.  He felt the first tendrils of guilt vining around his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. 

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to do that,” Roman said softly, diverting his eyes from Peter’s amused but searching gaze. 

“Hey, it’s not like it’s the first time you’ve tried to eat me alive.”

 Roman could hear the smile in Peter’s voice, but it did nothing to ease the shame he felt. Peter was right, it was the second time Roman had lost control and attacked him.  If it had been anyone else, anyone human, they wouldn’t have survived the first attack, not to mention the second.  But Peter wasn’t like anyone else. 

“Don’t worry about it.  With the rate I’ve been healing lately, it’ll be completely healed by morning.  I’m telling you, these last few weeks, it’s like I’m the goddamned highlander.  Immortal or some shit,” Peter said with a grin.

“Yeah, well maybe we don’t keep on testing that theory every day,” Roman said.

Peter lifted a hand to Roman’s face, pushing back a lock of hair that had fallen loose.  “You look better,” he said.  “You looked pretty strung out when I got here.  Everything alright?”

“Fine,” Roman said shortly.  “Hungry.”

“I thought you and Dr. Death had things all figured out?  Some sort of synthetics?”

Roman gave Peter a questioning look.  He hadn’t explained the mechanics of the hunger to Peter and didn’t expect him to understand what a pathetic substitute Pryce’s human goo was in comparison to the real thing.  It was like comparing weak tea to a French burgundy, like watery tofu to rich red meat. 

“There has been a hiccup in the supply chain, so to speak,” Roman offered vaguely.

Peter raised an eyebrow, shifting on to his side to offer Roman better access to his care of his neck. 

“Olivia.  She contaminated the supply.  She’s trying to smoke me out, make me desperate enough to come crawling back to her.  It’s leverage.” 

Peter pushed himself to a sitting position gingerly, taking Roman with him. 

“Well if she thinks that’s going to work then she has totally forgotten one important detail,” Peter said matter of factly. 

“What’s that?” Roman asked, pulling the soiled shirt from the wound at Peter’s neck, which had already clotted. 

“Me,” Peter said with a shrug. 

“I’m not using you as a food source.” 

“Hey, I know it’s not the tastiest, but beggars can’t be choosers, am I right?”  Peter got to his feet and held out a hand to Roman.  “C’mon, let’s go clean up.  Your shower is bigger than Destiny’s entire bathroom and I would really like to take advantage of that.   Take advantage of you.” 

Peter winked and Roman’s heart started doing acrobatics in his chest.  Peter turned and headed toward the bathroom with Roman trailing behind him, admiring the rug burns on his ass and the slight limp in his gait. 

He would let Peter take advantage of him, this time.  What harm could it do?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 4/5: I haven't abandoned this story, I promise. I have another chapter in progress but got a bit distracted by other work and RL. There will be more, so please subscribe if you want to receive an update when I do come back to this.


	14. Red Right Hand

"What if the breath that kindled those grim fires, / Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage, / And plunge us in the flames; or from above / Should intermitted vengeance arm again / His red right hand to plague us?"  
-John Milton, _Paradise Lost_

 

_The images come in flashes, like a strobe light illuminating the dark recesses of Peter's consciousness. At least, he assumes it's his. First, there is the sky. It is moody and gray with clouds swirling and morphing into wisps of smoke as they crawl across the horizon. And then, there is the ground; a mound of dirt that from afar appears to move and shift of its own volition. Peter walks closer on legs that do not feel like his own. Too long. Too thin. On closer inspection, what moved is not the dirt at all, but thousands upon thousands of fire ants. They swarmed the mound, all rushing to the center, to an entrance and some unknown force._

_Peter hears Nadia before he sees her. Her cries ring out in a series of echoes against far-flung walls. It is a frightening, empty sort of sound. And then she is in his arms, swaddled in a rough, dark cloth and the sound of her cries are no longer echoing, but present and near. Peter gently folds back the corners of the cloth to see her face, and what a precious face it is. Her cheeks are as round as apples and her lips are spread to reveal a gummy, toothless smile. But something is still wrong. Nadia's face and pudgy, reaching arms are smeared with vivid crimson. The blood is striped across her skin as if dragged by long, thin fingers._

_Nadia's weight in Peter's arms fades into nothing and Peter can feel the winter cold against his skin. There is snow on the ground around him and the white of it is blinding and causes him to fall back, a hand shading his eyes. There is a splotch of black against the white backdrop. He draws nearer, the snow crunching beneath his feet. There is a hulking beast before him and it is heaving loud, shuddering breaths. The white of the snow around the body is stained red. The beast lets out a whine and opens its yellow eyes. The whiteness fades away in a gust of wind._

_There is a dry, soothing warmth pressed against Peter's cheek and he leans into it. He realizes his eyes are closed and opens them to see sharp, angular features and wide black eyes against pale skin and raven hair that swirls around Peter in a wind he cannot feel. He reels backwards and loses his footing, stumbling into thin air. There is a swooping feeling in his stomach as he free falls, arms and legs scrabbling for purchase on anything, but there is nothing. Until he hits something that initially felt flat and hard but it gives under his weight and suddenly he is underwater. In the shock, he releases the last of his breath and watches it float away from him in translucent spheres. The water is murky but he sees something dark swirling in front of him. The thing floats upwards into his view to reveal long hair that curls, suspended in the water. The face is green and bloated but he knows it. He reaches out for his cousin, but before he touches her, her eyes snap open. They are foggy and gray with death and Peter tries to pull away but his limbs are leaden and slow._

_He gasps for air but his lungs flood with water. He chokes and pumps his arms and legs, striving for the surface. He nearly reaches the silver curtain where the air meets the surface. Nearly._

_______________________

Peter came to full alertness immediately, casting off the throes of sleep the second he opened his eyes, as if he'd never really been asleep at all, only pretending. It was early, he could tell by the color of the light, which was pale and watery as it danced across the ceiling, which although not his own ceiling, was quickly becoming familiar to him. He felt eyes on him and turned his head to the side.

Roman was on his stomach with his cheek cradled atop folded arms. His face was turned toward Peter and he was watching him, his round, pale eyes sweeping across Peter's face.

"You saw it too, didn't you." Roman didn't pose it like a question. He didn't have to, he already knew.

Peter pressed his fingers against his eyes, fleeing from Roman's searching gaze. "Yeah, I saw it."

Peter kept his eyes shut tight, even as he felt fingers brush across his cheek and into his hair. The gesture was soothing but Peter still felt edgy. Today was the day he would transform. The morning of the change always felt a different, even without the cryptic nightmares. It was as if every one of Peter's senses had been converted to high definition while he slept. The light outside was that blinding gray that accompanied overcast skies and he squeezed his eyes shut even tighter to block out the rays. He could hear the cars on the country roads that wound away from the house, their wheels making those sticky sounds against the pavement that indicated recent rain showers. But it was his sense of smell that was strongest, and currently warm tendrils of bergamot, tobacco and iron-rich blood were curling around him.

The fingers in Peter's hair trailed down over his jaw and then lightly across his lips. He didn't open his eyes but let the scent envelope him. When he felt a soft mouth press against his own he opened under it immediately, swiping his tongue over plush lips and against a warm tongue. He twisted his fingers into Roman's flaxen hair, soft and mussed from sleep and worry. Peter let thoughts of the dream trickle away for the moment and gave himself fully to the kiss. He heard Roman's sharp inhale and then a long, hard body was draped over him and he felt his stomach flip and his blood run hot. Peter curled his arms around Roman's back, smoothing spread fingers over miles of alabaster skin as Roman moved above him, nearly vibrating with want. Peter felt Roman's bare hardness against his thigh and pushed into it with a roll of his hips. There was another sharp gasp and a shiver as Roman thrust against him, his long fingers skating across Peter's sides, stomach and chest before curling possessively around his face and into his hair.

Peter opened his eyes finally and the sight of Roman, flushed and beautiful with his lip caught between his teeth, made Peter groan. As soon as the sound escaped his lips Roman's eyes went dark and suddenly he was kissing him again, messy and hungry. Kissing Roman always felt like being devoured. He was demanding and passionate with his mouth in a way Peter had never really experienced. There was no coy teasing with the tongue, but was deep and probing and it lit Peter's nerves on fire. Being consumed somehow always felt good when it was at the mercy of Roman's cruel and beautiful mouth.

They moved against each other with slow rolls and undulations of their bodies. The friction between their skin was like flint to fire and soon Peter was burning with need. Roman swallowed Peter's every gasp and moan and when he took both of them into one broad hand, his fingers wrapping firmly around Peter's aching erection Peter's vision nearly whited out.

Curses and prayers were spilling from Peter's lips as Roman worked his hand slowly up and down around them. The tight heat of his fist and the velvet slide of his hardened flesh against Peter's own were both agonizing and intoxicating and Peter felt that aching burn begin to build at the base of his spine. Roman's ministrations were so slow and drawn out and Peter was nearly out of his mind with lust, writhing and grasping for more. But Roman didn't hurry his movements. He kept them slow and torturous while Peter teetered on the precipice until with one final deft stroke Peter was coming. He let out a wild sound as his orgasm crashed over him in waves leaving him drowning in the pleasure and the aching relief. Moments later he felt Roman go stiff above him and Peter felt damp warmth stripe across his belly and mingle with his own before Roman's body went lax and he collapsed on top of him.

It was a few moments before Peter came down from the high of endorphins. Roman rolled off of him and to the side. He seemed to hover for a moment before getting to his feet and disappearing into the hallway. Peter pushed himself up to a seated position and headed for the bathroom. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and cringed at his reflection. His skin looked pallid and there were dark shadows underneath his eyes. The bite mark on his neck had closed and healed but left behind a puckered, pink scar that ran across Peter's jugular. There were smatterings of yellow in the shape of fingerprints across his hips and in bands across his arms. He looked like he'd spent the evening with the business end of a baseball bat, but perhaps he ought to start expecting that considering the company he kept.

Peter wiped the cooling semen from his stomach, chest and groin and then splashed his face with cold water before going in search of his pants, which he didn't even remember removing. He found them in the middle of the living room a little worse for wear, but mostly intact, so he pulled them on and then downed two glasses of water. He went to put his glass in the sink and was startled to see Roman standing there, Nadia nestled in his arms.

"Jesus, make some noise, will you?" Peter said, but there was no heat behind it.

Roman raised an eyebrow but didn't look up from Nadia's smiling face. "Jumpy today, are we?"

Peter grunted, resting his hip against the kitchen counter and watched Nadia's face light up as Roman cooed at her, trying to ignore the unwelcome pang of jealousy in his chest.

"You're good with her, you know," Peter said, after clearing his throat, in an effort to keep from sounding too wistful.

Roman gave him a skeptical look. "You mean when I can manage to keep her from being kidnapped by psychopathic surrogates and gargoyles?"

"Yeah, something like that," Peter said with a smirk. He stepped closer and ran a gentle hand over Nadia’s soft, fuzzy head before dropping his nose to smell that sweet, powdery baby smell at the top of her head. When he lifted his gaze, Roman was watching him with dark, possessive eyes.

Peter suppressed the urge to reach for him, to run his fingers over that obscene mouth and across the sharp juts of his cheekbones. But Peter was sentimental like that and there were things they needed to talk about. He couldn't let himself get carried away again, certainly not when doing so almost always landed him bruised and bloodied between Roman's expensive sheets, carpets, surfaces in general.

"So, are we going to talk about it?" Peter asked with a sigh.

Roman's storm-colored stare studied him wordlessly. Roman sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying it red, and Peter was momentarily adrift again. He shook the fog from his head and refocused his efforts.

"Shit's fucked up, man. I have to know what I'm dealing with here," Peter tried, scrubbing a hand across his face.

Roman's expression hardened. "Too much, Peter? Gonna run?"

Peter stifled the growl at the back of his throat. It was too early and Peter feeling far too edgy for Roman's ire this morning. "No," he managed between gritted teeth. "But I'm not fucking stupid. Something is going on with you."

"What makes you say that," Roman said, his eyes shifting away from Peter's to settle somewhere over his head.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that I was at a party, minding my own damn business when I hear _you_ calling me. And suddenly, I'm here and you're trying to simultaneously rip my throat out and fuck me into the floor."

There is a feral glint in Roman's eyes and Peter finds it unsettling. "To my credit, you were asking for it. Begging for it, actually."

Peter gave him a warning glare.

"I didn't call you, I told you that last night. Or maybe you were too drunk to remember that part? Or the part where you offered yourself to me? How about the part where you had some skank wiping her filthy scent all over you," Roman sneered, pointing an accusing finger at Peter's chest.

"Yeah, see that's the weird part. I remember all of those things," Peter explained, watching Roman's grip tighten around Nadia, his anger flaring visibly. "Vividly."

"Your regrets and suffering conscience are your problem, Rumancek. Don't drag me into it," Roman snapped.

"It's not about regret, dammit! Don't you get it? Can't you see?"

"See what?"

"What you do! What you've always done! You push your mind on people! You've been pushing it on me since we met. The dreams, all the fucking dreams..."

Roman's eyes flared viciously and his voice was low and soft and dangerous. "Are you suggesting I coerced you? That all this shit is because I forced you?"

"No! Fuck, no. That's not what I'm saying."

"Say what you mean, Peter."

"I think...I think we're connected. I think it's all connected. The shit that goes on in this town. Why you can't leave. Why I can't stay away. Why Letha died, why Olivia didn't. Pryce, Miranda, Spivak, all of it." Peter's focus flicked to Nadia involuntarily and he watched the fear flare in Roman's expression.

Roman kept his eyes trained on Peter, unblinking. He snapped his fingers noisily a few times and the nanny came scurrying out of corner, her head down and her arms hanging straight at her sides. Roman handed her the baby and she shuffled quickly up the stairs, the nursery door snicking shut behind her.

"I don't know how else to explain it. I've been a lot of places and I've seen a lot of weird shit, but this place, Hemlock Grove, is a whole different level of fucked up," Peter said, with a helpless wave of his hand.

Roman slumped forward, wrapping long arms around himself and dropping his head into one long-fingered hand. The movement was abrupt and strange, like someone had deflated his usual poise. "It's the baby," he said coolly, although his voice was low and soft.

"What?"

"Nadia," Roman said, unfolding himself to look at Peter, where he leaned against the opposite counter.

"What about her?" Peter asked.

"It all started when Letha got pregnant," Roman stated flatly, his round gray eyes boring holes into Peter, who tried not to squirm under the intensity.

Peter's incredulity must have shown because Roman let out an exasperated sigh and rearranged himself so that he was all but looming over Peter, one hand propped against the counter behind Peter's back, caging him in.

"Alright, it has always been weird here. And my family has always been at the center of it. But when Letha got pregnant, suddenly the goddamn gypsy caravan comes rolling into town, school girls start turning into monsters, some heavily armed Jesus freaks start knocking down my door, my mother goes batshit, Letha fucking _dies_ , Shelley goes on the run, Miranda shows up out of nowhere, the family doctor turns out to be some sort of lizard man. I mean, what the fuck? Yeah, shit was messed up before, but something changed when Letha got pregnant," Roman's eyes were blazing and his posture had gone rigid. Peter could feel the adrenaline rolling off him in waves.

And Roman had a point. But something wasn't exactly right. "You think this is about Nadia?"

"Yes! That's what I'm saying!"

Peter just shook his head. Nadia was special; there was no question about it. She was terrifying and beautiful and her power was palpable, but aside from that gentle dusting of golden hair and those wide eyes, very little of Nadia reminded Peter of Letha. Sweet Letha, with her easy smile and her infinite kindness. Nadia incited a fierce protectiveness in Peter and since he learned that she was still alive, Peter attributed that dangerous sort of love to Letha's memory, but that was wrong. All wrong. There was only one person that had Peter running headlong into danger without so much as a word, who set his heart aflame, who chained him to this cursed town and this insane family, who made the blood sing in his veins and for once in his life, let the monster within him lose without fear.

"I don't think this is just about Nadia," Peter said. Roman was too close, hovering inches from Peter's face with that unsettling, unblinking stare. "I think this is about you."

"What?" Roman asked, so deadly quiet Peter thought he might have imagined it.

"Nadia may be the weapon, but I think it's you they're looking for. It's you they want," Peter explained and watched the last of the color drain from Roman's face.

Roman's left hand snapped forward, twisting his fingers into the hair at the nape of Peter's neck in a way that sent shivers down his spine. He could feel Roman's cool breath against his skin and the fear behind his eyes. "Peter, I did something - something bad. I didn't mean to, I never meant to hurt her. I _loved_ her, you have to understand. I-" but before he could finish, Roman's body went rigid and his attention darted to the front door.

"Roman, what are you-” Roman clapped a hand over Peter's mouth, gave him a pleading look and shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he mouthed, although no sound came out, and released Peter so abruptly he nearly slumped to the ground.

And then Peter heard it. The sharp click of shoes against cement, the rustle of fine fabric against a body, the gentle inhale and exhale of another person's breath, but no heartbeat to accompany it. Peter watched as the deadbolt slid back from the door by some invisible hand, followed by the agonizingly slow turn of the knob. Peter was frozen. The wolf was tearing at him beneath his skin, but he couldn't make himself move, as if rooted to the ground. But Roman was faster.

"Peter, get down!" He shouted, but his voice sounded muffled through the fog in Peter's mind. It felt as if something cold and wretched had wrapped its fingers around his lungs and was squeezing the air them, wringing Peter of his consciousness. And then there was the sharp, melodic sound of glass breaking as the windows shattered, clear shards raining down around them from the force.

The squeezing feeling in Peter's lungs subsided only to be replaced by a thick, heavy weight, filling them like tar and bringing him to his knees. The thickness spread up his throat and he tried to choke as it spilled from his mouth, hot and insidious, drowning him. His eyes were burning and spilling salty tears down his face as his vision tunneled, his arms dead weight, hanging uselessly at his sides. Just before the darkness took him he saw a figure enter through the doorway, thin and gaunt and dressed in all black with a toothy Cheshire grin that was too wide for his face. The horror of defeat was the last thing Peter felt.  

And then there was nothing.

_______________________

Peter woke to a burning in his lungs. He sputtered and coughed, sending flecks of sticky black, too black to be blood, across the kitchen floor where he was sprawled face down. He pushed himself gingerly to his knees, the shards of glass littering the ground around him crunching beneath his hands and cutting into his skin. He hissed in pain as he clutched the counter and dragged himself to a standing position and took a look around.

The house was destroyed.

Every single piece of furniture was turned on its side. The couch had long, vicious gashes in the fabric and the stuffing was protruding from the cushions like a wound. The walls were sprayed with violent streaks of crimson red and tar black and the glass from the windows was blown clean from the panes and coated the floor in a glittering, translucent layer. The front door hung on by one hinge, leaving the entryway gaping and unguarded.

Peter's head was pounding but he strained his ears for any sounds, praying for some indication of life, a distant heartbeat that would lead him to Roman or Nadia. But there was nothing. Not a single sound. Not even the fluttering pulse of a squirrel or a bird within range. The place was dead and the silence was deafening. Peter's nightmares, all of them, were coming true around him. And he was alone.

Pushing aside the throbbing in his head and the aching in his lungs, Peter rushed up the stairs to Nadia's nursery. The security keypad beside the door had been ripped free and steel-enforced door lay flat on the floor, long, thin gashes cutting across the metal in sets of four the width of fingers. The room was in utter chaos. Nadia's crib was turned upside-down and her blankets and toys torn to shreds. There was blood, both black and red, absolutely everywhere; it coated the walls and floors like a Jackson Pollock painting. Peter leaned in to smell it, but wrenched himself quickly away before he vomited. The red blood was Peter's own, but smelled off. It had to have come from Roman, and god, there was _so much._ But the black substance is what made Peter's stomach turn, both with fear and disgust, because he knew this smell. It was ripe and putrid, like infected skin left rotting someplace humid and filthy. It was the scent of acute necrosis feeding off something barely alive, like a leech sucking the last drops from a bloated corpse. It was dead blood. And it smelled exactly like the creature from the basement of the cabin in the woods.

"Fuck," Peter whispered to no one in particular as the panic choked its way up his throat.

He wrenched himself from the room and flung himself down the stairs, tripping and stumbling his way to the bottom. He stepped through the gaping threshold that was once the front entry and hurried to the garage, bashing his hand against the keypad until the mechanism sprung to life and the door began to roll back with the high-pitched squeal of metal against metal.

Peter took a steadying breath. It was so fucking quiet. There wasn't a single birdsong or breeze or rustle of life for as far as Peter's senses could reach and it was terrifying. Peter remembered the oppressive silence from his dream of Roman in the cemetery and the déjà vu hit him like a freighter. This was wrong. So very wrong. He needed to find Roman. He needed to find Nadia. He needed help.

Peter had half a thought to feel triumph as he slid behind the wheel of the car nearest him, which was a svelte black 1960 Aston Martin DB4 Zagato. It was so quintessentially Roman, with its sleek lines and expensive interior. It was the most stupidly, overtly sexual car Peter had ever seen, so yeah, it was perfect for him. He wondered how horrified Roman would be if he knew Peter was driving a car that was probably worth more than a million bucks, but the fear gripped him again. He may never get a chance to find out.

So, Peter put the car in gear and sped out of the garage, the sound of the gravel beneath the tires muffled in the strange silence that encompassed the property. The car picked up speed like a dream and Peter felt the sounds filtering back into the world. He rolled down the windows and took a deep breath, searching for any hint of a familiar scent, but there was nothing, only the piney green smell of trees, the decay of autumn leaves and the crispness that preceded a Northeastern cold snap.

The trees lining the road blurred in Peter's peripheral as he sped past them, before they gave way to quaint neighborhoods with picket-fenced houses and lush, green lawns. Peter didn't slow down. He kept up his speed, zipping past startled pedestrians and blowing through stop signs until he pulled to an abrupt halt outside of Destiny's building. Peter knew something was wrong before he got out of the car, but he soldiered inside anyway.

The door was unlocked and swung open a few inches in breeze Peter couldn't feel as he approached the entryway. That eerie silence descended around him like a shroud, blanketing him in a quiet so deafening it left his ears ringing. Peter's stomach clenched as he wandered through the house, pushing back the beaded curtain and peering inside rooms he knew were empty. Unlike Roman's house, the furniture here remained righted, there were no signs of struggle and no blood on the walls. If not for the strange lack of sound, Peter might have thought Destiny had just gone out.

A flickering light down the hallway toward the bathroom caught Peter's eye. He glanced up at the ceiling as he approached and watched the bare bulb that jutted from the ceiling flash on and off. He reached up to screw the thing tighter into the socket, but snatched back his hand with a wince as the hot glass burned his fingertips. He clutched his hand to his chest and watched as the heat blisters sunk back into his skin, healing quickly and disappearing as if they never were.

A sound cut through the silence. It was the rhythmic drip, drip, drip from a faucet as the drop broke the surface of the water and was absorbed. Peter's eyes were drawn to the bathroom door at the end of the hall as the light flickered on and off like a strobe. The carpet at the base of the door was darkened and wet where water was seeping through from the room beyond. Peter hurried to the door and wrapped his hand around the cool brass of the knob, hesitating briefly before yanking the door open.

A wave of ice cold water rushed out around Peter's ankles and into the hallway, sending him stumbling back in surprise. The room was flooded. The faucet in the bathtub was barely on, dripping slowly into the full tub for what must have been hours. The room crackled with energy and Peter felt himself backing away slowly into the hallway as the light continued to flicker. He couldn't pull his eyes away from the rim of the tub where the water cascaded over the lip like a waterfall. Something was there. He could feel it.

Just as the fear coiled itself so tightly in Peter's gut that he thought it might snap, something black as the void and serpentine breached the edge of the bathtub. Peter took a another stumbling step backwards as the thing slid down the side of the porcelain with the water and onto the floor, where it swam towards Peter like a water moccasin, lithe and deadly. He could hear the ripples in the water as it moved towards him, splitting itself neatly in two down the middle and then into four, as the dark shapes sped easily through the shallow water.

Peter was mesmerized. He couldn't look away from the four black shadows that moved inexorably toward him until some instinct within him snapped into place and he was running. His legs felt leaden as he propelled himself toward the front door. He tried to look back but it only slowed him down further, as if he was running underwater, limbs heavy and slow. He tried to scream, to cry out but his lungs were squeezing tight again. He clambered toward the front door, gripping the frame and wrenching himself through it, down the stairs and out into the weak autumn light once again. Whatever it was released its hooks from him and Peter could breathe again, his limbs suddenly light and strong. He didn't turn back to the building, but got back behind the wheel of the Aston and sped off without a glance back.

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ," Peter cursed to the wind as he drove aimlessly forward, as fast and as far away from Destiny's house as he could get.

It had taken all of them. Roman, Nadia, Destiny, they were all gone. He didn't even know if they were alive. And that _thing_ , whatever it was, was chasing him away. It knew he would look for them, that he would die trying and it was going to torment him until his dream, or perhaps it was Roman's, became a reality and he was lying dead in the snow. Everything in him told him to run, to hit the highway and drive until Hemlock Grove was nothing but a dot on the map a thousand, no, ten thousand miles behind him. He felt that familiar itch beneath his skin, the scrape of claws against his rib cage, the scent of blood on the wind and he knew the change was close. It was only a matter of hours before it took him and he would lose the ability to rationalize, to decide his own fate. The wolf would chose for him. And although he wanted to run, wanted to be free and safe, he was chained here, like a dog on a leash.

Peter took a sharp right turn in the middle of an intersection, sending an SUV and a minivan skidding into the opposite lane in a flurry of honking horns and shouted curses. He floored the gas pedal, barreling toward the one place he wanted to avoid and the one person who could help him.

Olivia was already standing at the top of the stairs in front of Godfrey Mansion when Peter pulled up with a screech of tires. The grand door was open behind her but the interior was heavily shadowed. She leaned against the jamb, her posture casual but her lips were pursed and her eyes were dark and dangerous. There was something distinctly reminiscent of Roman in the stance, the way she lounged against the house and watched him with fearsome intensity, her clothes neatly pressed and pure white.

As Peter approached, Olivia righted herself, walking into the house without a word or a gesture of welcome and Peter followed her with barely a second thought. She settled herself in a straight-backed chair in the library, a dark room with heavy curtains and a smell like old scotch, cigars and hundred-year-old dust. She wove her long, skeletal fingers together and placed them elegantly in her lap before turning those dark eyes on Peter.

"I assume since you're driving the Aston Martin even though it looks like rain that they've finally gotten to him. That Roman has been taken." She said, her voice an attempt at nonchalance that came off more threatening than carefree.

Peter gave a short nod and watched as Olivia's fingers tightened in her lap, going white at the knuckles. Her complacent expression turned sneering. "The bastards. And _you,"_ she spat. " _You_ failed him, yet again. You useless, disgusting animal."

"The fuck are you on about?" Peter snarled back in surprise. "This isn't my fault!"

"You didn't think this was about you, did you?" Her voice turned syrupy and it made Peter's stomach turn. "At first I worried you'd be a distraction, an obstacle in his path and I was more than ready to put you down myself. But my son was always such a soft-hearted boy."

Peter snorted at this and Olivia's face went hard again. "He loved you, didn’t you know? He _cared_ about you. But he couldn't keep you, he didn't know how. I tried to tell him. I tried to teach him how to hold onto the things he loved, but he was _so sure_ that you'd stay, when the time came. That you loved him too. But you abandoned him. Time after time. My poor little prince." Olivia closed her eyes and a small, sad smile played at her lips.

"My Roman didn't understand why you took up with Letha. Why you wanted that bastard child so _badly_ , but I did. You always belonged to him, you just couldn't admit it," she continued.

Peter's fear and confusion was morphing into frustration. He didn't know what Olivia was going on about, why she was talking with such loathing about Letha and such tenderness about her son, as if he were some helpless fawn rather than a jungle cat with claws.

"What the fuck are you talking about? Did you have something to do with Letha's death?" Peter accused.

Olivia opened her eyes and hissed through her teeth. "That little prude played with Roman's heart too, you know. I can't say I was disappointed when my granddaughter ripped out her filthy insides on her way out. Do you play chess, Peter?"

Peter was sick to his stomach. He couldn't stand to hear Olivia talk about Letha that way. "What? No, what the fuck does that have to do with anything?" Peter snapped.

"Because this is just like a game of chess. Letha was just a pawn, a means to an end. Disposable. Weak. And you, Peter, are a knight. Powerful and useful, most certainly, but sacrificed for the sake of the king. You do understand that, don't you?"

"No, I don't fucking understand! Listen, I don't have time for the riddle-me-this bullshit. Roman, Nadia, my cousin, they are _gone_. I want to find them, preferably before that _thing_ , whatever the fuck it is, kills them. And something tells me you're the one to ask since where there are monsters and death, you are never far behind," Peter dropped in close enough to Olivia to smell the gardenias in her perfume and the blood on her breath. "Tell me what you know. Why do they want Nadia?"

Olivia let out a suffering sigh through her teeth and tilted her head to one side, fixing Peter with a feline stare. "That child is a weapon. To wield it properly, they need Roman."

"But why?"

A wicked smile spread across Olivia's face. "Because he's her father, of course."

All the air rushed out of Peter and he felt his knees buckle, bracing himself against the back of Olivia's chair to keep himself from sinking to the ground. _"What?"_

Olivia laid a cool hand on the side of Peter's face and although he wanted to recoil, he remained unmoving. "He loved Letha, in his way. She was kind to him and he protected her, she was so pure and lovely, everything he'd never be and everything he could never have. Not really. I knew he wanted her. All he needed was a little push."

"No," Peter managed between gritted teeth.

"She never had a chance, the poor girl. That child was bound to be the end of her. Our blood is awfully violent and she was so pathetically weak."

"But she was his cousin!" Peter exclaimed, his stomach churning.

Olivia just laughed and the sound was cold and hollow. "His sister, actually. J.R. never had it in him. But Norman, he was always so _willing._ Until he wasn't. You two have a bit in common, really. And it will end you all the same."

"What, he'll rip out my heart and leave me dead on the floor?" Peter sneered.

Olivia laughed again. "Something like that, yes. You still want to save him?"

Peter turned his back to Olivia and stared into the cold, soot-blacked fireplace. Had Letha known? Did she know that Roman was responsible for the pregnancy and kept it a secret? She said an angel came to her and Peter always doubted it, but he'd seen so many strange things in his life, he wasn't one to rule out possibilities. He suspected something horrible happened to her and her mind simply shielded her delicate vulnerability, replacing her fear and hurt with something infinitely gentler. But this? This was worse.

Peter tried to block out the images that tore through his mind, of Letha struggling, crying, begging Roman to stop. Peter felt sick, the nausea bubbling angrily in his gut and the bile burning the back of this throat. And then he remembered. Just before the windows had shattered, just before the blackness nearly drowned him, Roman tried to confess. He said he had done something bad. He'd never meant to hurt her. He could still see the pleading look in his eyes, the wretched way he had clung to Peter. God, the man just wallowed in a vat of self-loathing day in and day out and Peter pitied him. He knew he shouldn't. He knew it was all part of the game, the trick that Roman played on him, constantly reeling him back in as soon as he'd gotten free.

But his heart went ahead and clenched anyway when he thought of the tender way Roman looked at Nadia. The way he looked at his _daughter._ And then he thought of the way Roman looked at _him_ , all fire and possession, hunger and desperation and need. And Peter wanted it. He wanted all of it, God help him. He'd never felt more alive, more dangerous, more _right_ than when Roman looked at him just that way, like he'd never seen anything or anyone so beautiful.

Maybe Peter's fate was already sealed, maybe he'd never get away. Maybe he'd die here in Hemlock Grove just like the dreams promised him and that'd be the end of it. But there was still a chance for Roman and Nadia. There was maybe even still a chance for Destiny. And Peter had to take It, had to try for them, even if that meant making a deal with the devil.

"You're sick, you know that?" Peter said, turning slowly towards Olivia.

Olivia could probably smell his resignation and smiled demurely, lifting her shoulders in a delicate shrug. "But you still want my help."

"Do I have a choice?" Peter asked with a sigh.

"Don't feel too badly. You were always meant to end up here, with him. Your family and mine they are inexorably tied together. You belonged to him since the day you were born." She said it so casually and with such placidity that Peter couldn't help but wonder if she'd completely lost her marbles, that maybe this was all nonsense and some bad dream that he'd wake up from, just like every other morning. Even though his gut told him, _no chance._                                                 

"So free will has nothing to do with it?" He asked.

Olivia gave him a sad, pitying look. "Free will is an illusion. An excuse we make to justify power and control. We are all victims of fate."

"Christ. Okay, Yoda. Now, tell me where they are."

"I don't know where they are," she said plainly, inspecting her cuticles. "But we both know someone who does."

"And, pray tell, who is that?"

"Oh, let's see. She's got three broken ribs, one eye and penchant for child abduction."

Peter's heart sunk even further. "Miranda?"

Olivia got to her feet, looming over Peter. "I'll drive."

_______________________

Olivia never lost her cool composure, but she drove like it was her last shot at the Indie 500 and Peter found himself clutching the dash to keep his balance and praying that he didn't sick up all over what was certainly very expensive interior.

Peter barely had time to register their location before Olivia was turning swiftly into a private, underground parking garage beneath the Godfrey Institute. The garage was nearly empty save for a couple of matching sleek black cars without license plates and deeply tinted windows. The sharp click of Olivia's heels echoed against the concrete walls as Peter shuffled after her, struggling to keep pace with her long strides. They reached the elevator bay and she punched a button with a long, manicured finger, crossed her arms and glared at the metal doors until they opened.

Peter followed her inside the elevator, despite his instincts screaming for him to run, to avoid entered a small, metal box from which he could not escape with an Upir who had a distinct distaste for him. Olivia pulled an ID badge from the slim black bag that hung from her shoulder, slid it through the reader and pressed the button for one of middle floors. The elevator lurched to life, leaving Peter's stomach at his feet.

When the elevator came to a stop and the metal doors clanged open, Olivia strode forward with purpose, but Peter hesitated. This was not what he'd expected. He'd expected the clean white hallways and fluorescent lighting of a hospital ward, thick with the scent of antiseptic and filled with harried nurses in bright colored scrubs.

"Miranda is here?" Peter asked, taking in the low ceilings, the bare light bulbs screwed into rusting fixtures, the disembodied, echoing cries that sounded down the hallways lined with steel enforced doors and complex locking mechanisms. It looked like a maximum security prison. Or a psyche ward circa 1930.

"Of course. Ms. Cates is a flight risk, and where my family is concerned, I take no chances. And please remember this is a not a hospital, it is a research facility. This is just one of the places we conduct... _research,"_ Olivia explained with a wave of her hand as she strode past Peter and up to a small glass window lined with bars behind which sat a grumpy looking older woman typing slowly on an ancient computer.

Peter could feel the prickling sensation of a cold sweat breaking out beneath his arms and his lower back. This hallway was too claustrophobic, too dark and too menacing. There was no natural light and the air tasted like the inside of a dirty refrigerator, as if it had been cycled through the vents one too many times.

"Excuse me," Olivia said sweetly into the microphone to the woman behind the barred window. "I'm here to see patient number 230948."

The woman didn't look up from her computer screen. "No visitors in Ward B," she said flatly.

Olivia cleared her throat delicately. "Perhaps you didn't hear me the first time. I need to see patient Miranda Cates," Olivia's voice went syrupy in that way that Peter was learning was a prelude to an outright threat.

"No can do, ma'am. Ward B is closed. No visitors," she repeated. The woman scratched her scalp of frizzy gray hair roughly and then inspected the flakes of skin that caught beneath her fingernails before flicking away the dandruff and returning her attention to her slow, deliberate typing.

Olivia's serene expression twisted into a disgusted sneer and she slammed her large fist against the glass, causing it to tremble and hairline fractures to spiral out from the impact. The woman's attention snapped to Olivia, taking her in with a sweep of her dull, reddened eyes. Olivia drew her face close to the glass, her fist still resting against the cracks.

"Number 230948, _please,"_ she said slowly, with a wicked smile.

The woman behind the desk rose to her feet with a grumble, released the four separate deadbolts on the interior of the office door and came to stand in front of Olivia. She was squat and heavyset, in complete opposition to Olivia's towering stature. She had the face of disgruntled bulldog and smelled of sick and old blood, which sent Peter's stomach churning and his upper lip curling in disgust.

"Follow me," she grunted and Olivia sent her a dazzling smile, which she ignored.

The nurse spared Peter a glance and sniffed wetly as she waddled past him, her arms sticking out at an angle from her round body. Her knees didn't so much as bend when she walked; rather she swung the thick trunks from her waist with some effort.

They passed a dozen or so doors as they walked with measured slowness down the corridor. Peter tried to peek into the little square windows set into the steel, but the interiors were all dark. That was until they reached a door numbered 443 and the strange nurse came to a halt. She sniffed again, cleared the phlegm from her throat noisily and punched a long series of numbers into the keypad to the left of the door with fingers as large and greasy as sausages.

"Here we are," she grunted. "I'll be back to get you in fifteen minutes. No more, no less. If the patient gets violent, there is a panic button to the right of the door." And then she added in a low grumble, "Although I doubt anyone would get here in time to save your skinny ass."

The nurse yanked the handle of the door with one pudgy hand and it swung open with a screech. Olivia strode inside without preamble and Peter followed her reluctantly.

The walls of the cell, because that is exactly what it was, were lined with a torn and dingy fabric, a futile attempt at padding. The room was sparsely furnished with one metal chair with flaking white paint, one steel desk that looked less like a place to read or write and more akin to a miniature operating table, and a sagging metal-framed bed.

Miranda looked thin and gaunt, a stained and discolored hospital gown hung from her slender shoulders and her legs were tangled in a threadbare sheet. Her skin was gray and her hair was matted and hung in limp strands around her sunken eyes, one of which was covered in a flesh-toned bandage that wrapped around the back of her head.

Olivia maintained her distance, a look of unadulterated repulsion on her face, but Peter drew close, kneeling beside the bed and taking one of Miranda's hands in his. His heart ached for her. She looked like death warmed over and her wrists were marred with yellowing bruises, probably from the restraints that hung over the sides of her cot.

"Peter," she whispered, her voice hoarse from disuse.

"Miranda, I didn't know you were here. I'm so sorry. This place, it's - “Peter faltered, his eyes sweeping over the dismal conditions as a wave of guilt washed over him.

Miranda patted his hand weakly. "It's hell. But I've seen worse."

Peter opened his mouth to respond, to try and comfort her, but was interrupted by the loud scraping of metal against the floor as Olivia dragged the lone chair across the room and deposited it a comfortable six feet from Miranda's bed. She dropped elegantly into the seat, crossing her ankles to one side.

Peter shot her an angry look, but Olivia, predictably, ignored him. "Unfortunately, this is not a social visit."

"And what is it that you want from me?" Miranda responded tiredly.

Olivia smoothed her hands over the wrinkles in her skirt and then arranged them neatly in her lap, turning her dark eyes and sinister smile to Miranda, like a hawk stalking a mouse. "Your winged friend has got his claws on my son and my granddaughter. I'd like to get them back."

Miranda sucked in a sharp breath and her eyes darted to Peter. "He's got Nadia?"

Peter nodded solemnly.

"Then it's too late," she said, twisting her hands in the sheet. "He's strong, Peter. Even you don't have a chance."

Olivia clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Tsk, I think you underestimate our Peter. He's rather ferocious when he wants to be. Show her that face you make when you're angry."

Peter was startled at Olivia's sudden confidence in him, sarcastic as it may have been, but he knew better than to trust her at her word. She would use him like a battering ram to get to her son and would leave Peter broken and bloody in the process, he had no doubt. Miranda was proof enough.

"Please, Miranda. We have to try," Peter pleaded.

Miranda clutched at her ratty hair, her one good eye darting between Peter and Olivia. "When I - when I fell," Miranda choked. "Spivak took me somewhere I'd never been. I think it was north. It had to be. It's all fuzzy, I was barely conscious for any of it. He kept me sedated. I would only wake up long enough to feed Nadia before he'd put me under again. But it was cold. I remember that part. And wet. I think we were underground."

"And the place we found you in the forest?" Peter asked. He was leaning close to Miranda in order to hear her, her voice was so faint and shaky. He wanted to reach for her, to touch her, but she seemed so skittish that he didn't dare.

Miranda shuddered. "That's where we met _him_."

"Him?" Peter asked.

"The man in black. He lived in that house. Under it, really. He kept Nadia and me there, I don't know how long. It felt like forever but it probably wasn't more than a couple days. God, the smell. I can't even describe that fucking smell."

Peter knew exactly the smell she was referring to, having woken to it coating the walls in Roman's house. He snuck a glance at Olivia, who was watching him carefully, her fingertips drumming on top of her knee.

"Wait, you said there was a man? I didn't see a man there, just that _thing._ Looked like a gargoyle or something, smelled like dead bodies, bled black."

Miranda licked her lips, her breath coming quick and she nodded minutely. "That was him. Sometimes he looks like that, but most of the time, he looks like a man. Wears a black suit, shiny shoes. Lots of rings. Heavy ones," she said with a wince, waggling her fingers in front of her.

"Who is he? _What_ is he?" Peter asked, perplexed, a fuzzy image of a dark figure with the wide grin in the threshold of Roman's doorway before everything faded to black.

Miranda's eyes went wide and shiny, brimming with tears that threatened to spill over. Her hands were shaking minutely and she dropped her voice to a whisper, leaning in close to Peter.

"The devil," she said.

Olivia scoffed loudly and crossed her arms over her chest. "Oh please."

Miranda turned frantically to Olivia. "You don't believe me?" Miranda demanded, her voice gone shrill. "You didn't _see_ him, hear him. Peter, please, you have to believe me. He's _evil."_

Olivia rolled her eyes. "Girl, your naiveté is showing," Olivia scolded. "Evil? Really? You don't know the half of it. There is nothing so simple as good and evil. There's no devil just like there is no god. Just a human construct made up to explain-"

"Shut up," Peter snapped.

"How do you know?" Miranda shouted at Olivia, the panic clear in her posture.

Olivia drew herself up to her full height and then bent over Miranda, her curtain of dark hair falling around her face. "Because the devil were real, _I'd know_."

"Enough!" Peter growled, raising a hand to push Olivia back but thinking better of it before touching her. She smirked and stepped away, sinking back into her chair, crossing her legs and folding her hands back into her lap.

Peter placed a soothing hand on Miranda's arm and her eyes seemed to refocus, sweeping over him nervously. "Where is he now, Miranda? Still in the forest? That house?"

She shook her head adamantly. "No. He's here, in Hemlock Grove."

"How do you know?" Peter pressed.

"He told me. He was trying to draw Roman in. He knew he'd chase after Nadia. But he failed the first time. I don't think he was expecting you. Roman, definitely. But not you. He was preparing for a ritual. He needs a church."

Olivia let out another haughty sigh. "Of all the ridiculous clichés."

"He's at a church? In Hemlock Grove?"

"Yeah. I've never seen in, but I'd get flashes of it in my head like a dream. It has stained glass windows, stone walls. It's next to a cemetery, an old one, with big headstones and a wrought iron fence," Miranda explained.

"God _fucking_ dammit," Peter mumbled, aghast. He felt as if the rug had been torn out from under him and stood up abruptly, taking a step back. He could hear Olivia chuckling softly behind him.

"What?" Miranda asked nervously.

Peter could see the old church distinctly in his mind, which wasn't surprising considering how many hours he'd spent there. How nearly he'd already lost his life in that god-forsaken building. Of course that would be where this "devil" would hide, the scene of Peter's most vivid nightmares.

"Oh these things do come full circle, don't they?" Olivia said in a singsong voice.

Peter did his best to ignore her jibes and turned back to Miranda, taking one of her shaking hands in his. She was so cold and so frail. "I know where he is. Thank you, Miranda."

She nodded once and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

"I'm so sorry for what has happened to you. When this is all over, I promise, I'll get you out of here," Peter said, hoping she'd take comfort in the sincerity in his voice.

She smiled at him sadly. "I'm not getting out, Peter. I'll die here and you know it."

"You won't. I'll help you."

She shook her head. "You don't get to do what I did and live to see another day. I'm already as good as dead."

Her resignation shook Peter to the core and he wanted to hold her, to remember what she felt like when she was warm and soft and smiling. But she was just a shell. Another pawn in the sick game they were playing, just like Olivia had said.

Peter was struggling to think of something reassuring to say to her when the steel door buzzed loudly and the squat nurse pushed her way in. There was a fresh red stain smeared across her faded scrubs and she swiped her wrist across her nose, leaving a slimy streak across her cheek. "Time's up," she grunted.

"It's only been five minutes. We're not finished," Peter told her.

She raised one bushy eyebrow at Peter but made indication that she cared.

"Well," Olivia said, getting to her feet and arranging herself. "This has been _lovely._ Truly enlightening. Thank you for your hospitality. Ms. Cates, do take care of yourself." And with that she turned on her heel and left the room.

The nurse made a move toward Peter but he jumped to his feet before she could touch him and maneuvered himself carefully around her. He gave Miranda one last pitying smile that she didn't return, and he left, jogging after Olivia as she strode toward the elevator.

When the metal doors slid shut behind them, Olivia made no move to press any buttons, she simply stood, stoic and elegant as always.

“Well, at least we know where he’s hiding,” Peter offered flatly in an attempt to fill the terse silence.

The corners of Olivia’s shapely mouth turned up slightly, but she continued to stare straight ahead. “He’s not hiding. He was never hiding.”

“He’s not? Then why go to all this trouble?” Peter asked, confused.

Olivia turned to him then, slowly. “He’s not hiding, he’s _waiting_.”

“For what? For us?”

“For you. He’s waiting for you. He knows you’ll come this time. He’s expecting you.”

The elevator shuddered to life of its own accord and Olivia sucked in breath as she watched the floor numbers count down.

“He’s trying to break Roman, to wear him down. The only way he’s going to do that by using you as leverage. He’ll use your fear and your pain to break my son, if he hasn’t done so already,” Olivia continued.

“So, are we heading straight there then? Between the two of us, we’ll have to have some sort of advantage,” Peter said, disliking the idea of working with Olivia but circumstances were dire.

Olivia turned to him and shook her head slowly. “No, I won’t be coming with you, unfortunately.”

“What the hell? Why?” Peter burst out as the elevator came to a halt.

“Because I’m not going to make it out of this building,” Olivia said ominously as the doors slid open to reveal two enormous men with thick necks, bald heads and dark suits blocking the exit.

Johann Pryce pushed his way between the two men as they each closed one meaty hand on Olivia’s slender arms, yanking her out of the elevator.

“Ah, Olivia. You just can’t seem to stay away from your own crime scenes, can you?” Pryce said flatly with a minute shake of his head. “If you insist on impeding my work here, I’m going to have to restrain you. I’m sure you understand. This is just business.”

Olivia’s usually demure smile turned feral and she laughed a little too loudly, the sound echoing off the marble walls of the empty hallway that stretched on around them. “Business? Enough with the pretenses, Johann. There’s nothing you can do to me that hasn’t been done be done to me before, a thousand times worse.”

Pryce gave her a tight, disingenuous smile and signaled to the two men with a flick of his wrist. They tried to throw Olivia off balance, but she kept her composure, keeping stride with her captors, her back ramrod straight.

“Oh and Peter?” she called over her shoulder. “Don’t let him see your fear. It only makes him stronger.”

She disappeared around the corner, down some unmarked corridor and Peter remained where he was, still standing in the elevator with his foot blocking the door from shutting as the sensors pinged impatiently. Pryce gave Peter a placid smile and stepped into the elevator with him, pressing a button for the 34th floor.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. Olivia has been causing some…disruptions. I cannot allow it to continue. We do important work here, you see. Her sociopathic meddling has cost the company millions of dollars and more than enough headaches. She will be perfectly fine, I assure you.”

Peter snorted, unconcerned, and gave the doctor a once over. He stood straight backed with his hands clasped in front of him. He wore casual khakis and a checkered shirt underneath an immaculately white lab coat, giving off the impression that he was harmless, a simple technician rather than Dr. Frankenstein himself.

The elevator doors opened at the 34th floor and a long, brightly lit hallway stretched in front of Peter. Pryce stepped out and gestured for Peter to follow him, but Peter fell back a step.

“Uh, no thanks. I have somewhere I need to be,” Peter explained.

Pryce cocked his head to one side quizzically. “I have no doubt, but there is something, someone, rather, I’d like you to see.”

Peter hesitated, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach as he followed Pryce out of the lift and down the long hallway. The walkway was lined with enormous windows that looked out over Hemlock Grove. The sky was dove gray and the clouds hung too low and too heavy over the sleepy little town.

When they reached the end of the hallway, Pryce waved Peter through a set of swinging hospital doors without a word. The anxious tension flooded out of Peter as soon as he laid eyes on the hulking figure of the room’s lone inhabitant.

“Peter?” Shelley’s voice was soft and hesitant, the words still forming strangely in her mouth.

Peter went to her beside and clasped one of her hands, wrapped in pure white bandages, and clutched it to his chest as he smiled warmly at her.

“Peter, are you alright?” she asked, he forehead crinkling with concern.

“Yeah, Shelley, I’m fine,” Peter said, his voice cracking slightly. “What about you? How are you doing? I’ve missed that pretty face of yours.”

Shelley’s cheeks flushed blue. “I’m okay. Johann has been very kind to me. I’m feeling much better now.”

Peter turned back to Pryce, who remained in the doorway, smiling at Shelley affectionately, his face gone soft and warm as he gave Shelley a reassuring nod.

“Where is Roman, Peter? Is he coming to see me soon?” she asked expectantly.

Something tightened painfully in Peter’s chest and although he tried to keep it from coloring his expression, the frown that overtook Shelley’s face let him know he’d given himself away.

“He’s-“Peter stuttered. “He’s busy right now but as soon as he’s able, he’ll be here. Nothing could keep him from his favorite sister.”

Shelley’s responding smile was wan. “What happened to Roman, Peter? Is he hurt?”

Peter clamped his bottom lip between his teeth. “I don’t know Shelley, but I’m going to find him. I’ll make sure he’s okay. I promise you.”

“You look so sad.” Shelley patted Peter’s hand softly with one of her large ones.

“Just worried. But I’m so happy to see that you’re safe. I wish I could stay here with you, but there are things I need to do and I don’t have a lot of time,” Peter said with a cursory glance at the clock on the wall. “You just keep smiling for me, pretty girl. I’ll be back here before you know it. Roman too.”

Shelley nodded cautiously as Peter got to his feet. He gave Pryce a grateful nod as he headed back to the elevators.

“Peter,” Pryce called after him, the doors to Shelley’s room swinging shut behind him, shielding her from their view. “Has Roman been well? Is he acting strangely?”

“Strange? For Roman? Not really sure how to answer that,” Peter said tersely.

“I’ve been…worried. Roman needs to feed at increasing amounts or else he will lose control. It is a side effect of the halted procedure and I cannot provide him with any substitutes at the moment. I’m concerned for the safety of those around him,” Pryce explained carefully.

“Yeah, definitely noticed the increased bloodlust, if my neck is any testament to that,” Peter said, yanking at the collar of his shirt to reveal the thick, shiny scar tissue.

Pryce frowned. “He’s been feeding on you?”

“Once or twice,” Peter shrugged.

“Interesting,” Pryce said with narrowed eyes. “Experiencing any strange side effects?”

“Yeah, all sorts. Listen, thanks for letting me see Shelley, but I’m in a bit of a hurry here. The medical theories can wait, yeah?” Peter said impatiently, shifting from foot to foot and keeping a cursory eye on the sun, which was sinking closer to the horizon behind the thick layer of clouds.

Pryce followed Peter’s line of sight, gave him a knowing nod and took a step backwards. “I see. Yes, please come and see me at your earliest convenience. I would like to run tests, if you’d be obliging?”

“Yeah, whatever. Take care of Shelley, alright? Don’t let Olivia anywhere near her,” Peter said, turning away.

“Never,” Pryce said resolutely. “Here, you’ll need these.” Peter turned back to see Olivia’s car keys in Pryce’s outstretched hand.

Peter took another glance at the sun outside, feeling the pull of the moon from where it hid, waiting for darkness. It was almost dark and he wouldn’t be able to hold back the beast much longer. He could feel the claws sharpening beneath his fingertips.

“No,” Peter said. “I won’t.” And he turned to leave.

He was running out of time.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm car porn. This is the 1960 Aston Martin DB4 gt Zagato mentioned in this chapter: 
> 
> http://www.aston-martin.com/2014/02/07/for-sale-custom-built-db4-gt-zagato/ 
> 
> There was only like 19 or 20 of these made, I think. They're worth like $2.5 mil. I've decided Roman gets one. YUM.
> 
>  
> 
> UPDATE 10/23: Goddammit Netflix. Season 3 happened before I could finish this blasted thing. I am abstaining from watching it while I finish writing the last 2 or 3 chapters (I'm nearly done!) as I don't want it to mess with my carefully laid plans. So, yes. This story will be finished and it will be soon. Thanks for hanging in there with me!


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